Just Kill Me Now
by loneyb
Summary: Aaron and Marta are now back in the Orient and in trouble! New twists and turns and switchbacks and blind alleys and ... stuff.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Marta, once known as Doctor Shearing, sometimes known as June Monroe and most lately known as Chambermaid Ingrid Bateman, stopped at the bottom of the CV Rainbow Seas' crew gangplank and resisted the urge to look back at the pristinely white floating sweatshop that had been her home for two weeks. She was never going to fold another bath towel, sheet or napkin for as long as she lived. Leaving the female crew dorm this morning in the pajama pants and t-shirt she'd boarded in, she carried a small plastic bag that held the last of the makeup Aaron had bought for her in Hong Kong and a few things gleaned from passenger trash – another t shirt with a carefully rinsed out wine stain, a half used lipstick in Marilyn Monroe red, two unused mini shampoo bottles, a few bars of soap, a new toothbrush, toothpaste and most precious of all, a plain gold band wedding ring. Scrubbing a toilet two cabins away, she'd heard the screaming fight that had led to that find. It had reminded her of Aaron Cross. She slipped the ring back on. She'd been wearing it to keep the lechs at bay. Plenty of those among the stewards and she wasn't yet good enough with Tai Chi to take them on.

Running her fingers through her new blonde pixie-cut, she tried to look around like Aaron had taught her without turning her head. She caught no sign of him. She hadn't seen him since the Honolulu docking two days ago when he'd passed her in the corridor and pressed a note into her hand. Maintenance crew gear had clanged gently on his belt as he glided away, muscles flowing smoothly like the tiger he was.

He had held a toilet plunger. Toilet issues were legion aboard the Rainbow Seas.

She'd wanted to stop him and hold his hand for a moment, say something, anything. Her skin had tingled where he'd touched her. He'd stroked the wedding ring on her finger as he passed.

"Wait for me at the pay desk" the note had said. Looking around the San Francisco cruise dock, teeming with luggage carts, silk Hong Kong designer rip-off jackets, Fijian floppies and dark sun glasses that covered entire faces, she couldn't see anything that suggested pay desk.

"Lost, Ing?" her fellow chambermaid Katra came up behind her.

"Gotta find the pay desk," she said. Together they wandered towards the red brick admin buildings.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Hong Kong, three weeks ago.

"Scope the hotel exits," Aaron said as handed her out of their taxi. He let the hotel porter retrieve their two new leather suitcases from the driver. Tugging at the lapels of his pale linen suit, he straightened the line then ostentatiously wagged his neck to get the blue tie to hang correctly. Damn, he looked good. His said something to the porter in Russian. The porter looked blank. Aaron snarled the same thing again.

Marta wished he'd picked a language she knew better for their masquerade. "And those languages are …?" he'd asked.

"Uh, Latin, enough German and Russian to read treatises, French, of course." She'd spent half of her life with her older sister in Montreal. Of course she knew French. He must have known that. It was creepy how much he knew about her.

"You can be my French mistress, if you like." She'd declined, afraid of slipping up. Besides she had a Canadian accent to cut with a knife.

Running up to Hong Kong on the Filipino boat – Aaron said its Tagalog name translated to Stinky Rose and that it was probably a drug smuggler based on the captain's flexible morality, the limited number of nets and fish bins on the deck and the small crew - she'd found Aaron on the back deck checking maps and plotting their futures. "I was hoping we were lost," she'd said.

He'd grinned faintly and let the map roll back up on its own. "What did you have in mind?"

"First, let's take off those bandages and I'll check your leg and shoulder." That hadn't gone over well. Since he didn't get infections, fevers, or even stiffness, he'd known what she really wanted - to evaluate his body for viral after effects. His upper lip had twitched in a controlled sneer and he'd growled, "No more, Doc. No more Participant Five. No more Outcome. I'll live with what I've got."

A doctorate and two fellowships, and thanks to the US Government, Marta had absolutely no purpose. Her one test subject wouldn't let her near him. She could hear her mother snickering, "Told you so." Two years dead and Mother still managed the last word. She had hated Marta's career. Marta had hated her.

That first night on the Stinky Rose Marta had killed an entire bottle of native wine. Aaron had none. He said he didn't drink. Ever.

Aaron did give her one job. Pulling a digital voice recorder out of his seemingly bottomless backpack, he ordered her to record everything she could remember about Sterisyn, Project Outcome and viral enhancement technology. "At some point we'll need insurance," he said. He also recorded several hours of his own recollections. She could hear him droning into the recorder at night when they anchored up and the captain slept. The Filipino captain wouldn't let Aaron take a turn at the wheel. Aaron had shrugged. Captain's boat, captain's rules. They weren't in a hurry.

When they arrived in Hong Kong Aaron had stored the recordings online in a free Amazon Cloud account. He'd made her memorize the login and password.

They were staying here looking for contacts that could them back into the States. Container shipping lines had offices nearby. Visiting personnel favored this tourist class hotel.

As Marta circled the lobby she glanced in Aaron's direction. She found herself tracking where he was and what he was doing, like a wife tracks her husband – or a victim tracks a tiger.

Aaron stood more or less in the center of the white marble tiled lobby, away from the tourists lounging around, sipping iced drinks and otherwise hanging out in air conditioned comfort. The porter already had their bags at the check in counter, but Aaron seemed frozen in place, staring eye to eye with a muscular older man, at least half a head taller and 50 pounds heavier than him, wearing a casual linen suit almost identical to Aaron's. A grey crew cut gave the man a soldier look. Marta had seen dozens like him at Sterisyn. A few paces behind Crew Cut stood a woman of about the same age. She looked anxious, the man like a drill sergeant chewing out a recruit, and Aaron frozen at full attention uncertain. Aaron never looked uncertain. He always had a plan.

"Kitsom, Kitsom! Are you in there! What do you have to say for yourself, soldier? Why aren't you dead?" The man's parade ground bark started to attract attention. Bored loungers looked hopefully in their direction.

Aaron needed help. Marta reversed course.

She wrapped her hands around Aaron's right arm, careful to leave his dominant left free. "Oh, Ivan dahling," she cooed, "is this the chauffeur you were telling me about? I thought you said he was blond. You know I want all the servants to be blond."

This morning when they were shopping in the consignment shop for clothes, Aaron had bought her this white silk f**k me dress that barely reached her mid-thigh, saying, "Trophy wives need trophy clothes. Grab a wedding ring too." He waved at the sparkling trays of zirconia jewelry. She chose something that would have horrified a Hollywood starlet.

Yeah, right, she'd thought. Trophy clothes. You just want to see my ass in something besides blue jeans. But the dress slipping on her thighs gave her a sudden idea. Rubbing against Aaron, she dragged the hem up even further. Her hand slid in the general direction of his crotch. "Why are we hiring servants today? Can't that wait?" She gave him a brief open mouthed kiss. His eyes smiled even more than his lips. Relaxing, he wrapped an arm around her waist and squeezed, saying something in Russian too fast for her to catch.

"Oh you know my Russian is terrible, sweetie. Slower please."

"I say this man no chauffeur. Don't know this man." Aaron's Russian accent sounded genuine. "You no like this man? I no like him either." He reached out and gave Crew Cut a light push on the shoulder. "If you please, get out of way. We check in, wife and me."

Crew Cut had been watching their kiss with an expression like a thundercloud and definitely did not like Aaron's push. "If you're not Kitsom, who the f**k are you?" he demanded.

His woman had come up and taken his arm. "Griss, honey, let's go to our room. I'm tired." Griss growled under his breath.

Aaron drew himself up. "I Ivan Sergei Illovich." He nodded at Marta. "My wife Mart-ye." Breaking into a grin, he added, "We just married." He looked down at Marta with a sloppy grin, perfectly imitating a lovesick new husband.

Crew Cut's wife tugged on his arm again. "Leave the newlyweds alone, Griss. Let's go clean up for dinner." They left, Crew Cut looking over his shoulder all the way to the elevator.

"I'm not going to even ask," Marta said sotto voce as they turned to the check in desk.

"Master Sergeant Grissom Collins, my NCO in Iraq." He added under his breath, "Bastard killed me …" and something about bombs and dead soldiers. She didn't think he'd wanted her to hear that.

They stayed that night in the hotel because Aaron said they couldn't run away. It would look suspicious. "It was stupid to come here in the first place," he said, looking away, his jaw and lips working around tightly clenched teeth, his eyes avoiding hers. She knew that look. He was planning something she wouldn't like.

Aaron ran the television on CNN all night. Marta drank most of the mini-bar.

In the morning they ditched their leather suitcases, fancy clothes and the zirconia fake wedding ring and moved to a flophouse. That night Aaron crawled out of their window in worn out sweats. As the sun came up he returned in a tee and blue jeans, the smell of blood, gunpowder and dirty drains wafting in with him. Vodka soothed Marta back to sleep, and she was grateful Aaron didn't lie down on the bed. Although he never touched her sexually or otherwise, it was too close when he smelled of blood. Way too close. Master Sergeant Collins should have kept his mouth shut.

She asked Aaron about Collins the next day. Looking away, he said, "I do what I have to do to stay alive."

What he had to do. She wondered how far he would go, who he would kill to stay alive. Everyone on her study team acknowledged that Outcome agents thought differently, that the virus channeled their brains in new patterns that no one really understood. Doctor Hillcott had just begun an in-depth study when Foite had shut down the Blue Lab … hard and with bullets.

Would Aaron kill her to stay alive? Did she want him to? She poured another inch of vodka into her glass and considered the question.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Hong Kong, a week later

"This isn't what you do. I've watched you. You swat at their hands." Marta demonstrated with a smack at the side of Aaron's wrist. Marta hated the long, boring training required for the fluid misdirection of Tai Chi moves. She hated exercising in their hot, stuffy flop. She hated the long days waiting while he cruised the streets for information. Today Marta hated everything except the bottle of vodka on the nightstand. She especially hated Aaron.

Marta was afraid of him, he knew that. He'd killed five men just a few feet away from her face and although she trusted him implicitly with her life, even held his hand when she was afraid and practically hid in his shadow when threatened, he often read fear in her tight eyes and unconsciously submissive posture. Her drinking had begun to get out of hand.

Anger wouldn't keep Marta going. She'd fold like she had back in Maryland when he'd been so angry about the missing chems. Bullying, however, often did work on her and somehow he got her on her feet and learning Tai Chi. She wasn't quite drunk. She wasn't sober either. He'd considered forbidding liquor in their room, but she'd just go out to drink and that would have been far worse. And with no TV, computer or internet, not even books, there was nothing for her to do. Who was he to judge? It wasn't like she was pregnant.

Aaron hated alcohol. That's what had robbed Kenny Kitsom of his smarts – fetal alcohol syndrome. His mother had been a casino showgirl in Las Vegas. Then she got pregnant and moved to Reno, drinking a pint of vodka every day. He was pretty sure she would have aborted him if she could have, but maybe abortions weren't easy to come by in the 1980s.

After Kenny was born, she'd abandoned the baby in the hospital and returned to Vegas where she drank herself into an early grave. At least that's what Berwin's records, Washoe County General's records, Reno and Vegas police reports and the newspaper's dead file said. He'd spent one whole month tracking all that down, breaking into police cold storage and hacking the hospital's computerized records. Berwin had given him a copy of their files for the Army enlistment office. There was no record of Kenny's father. It's possible his mother hadn't known.

"No, I don't swat hands. I break wrists, I break arms. I do what I do because I'm enhanced, Marta. Remember? Enhanced?" He picked up an empty vodka bottle from the litter of old food wrappers, cans and other trash on the table, tossed it in the air, and chopped at it as hard as he could with the side of his hand. It shattered in an explosion of green glass. It was a stupid trick, and the way he'd cut his hand in Iraq, showing off for a pretty corporal while he waited for Byer to fly in. No cuts today.

He looked down at the glass that now covered the floor and sighed. "Stay where you are. I'll get a broom." Marta was barefoot. He had on his Nike knock offs.

"No, no. Let me do it. I want to do something." That didn't make sense, so he ignored her and returned seconds later with the landlord's broom and pan. Marta had crawled onto their bed, which meant she'd walked through the glass. Damn, she was going to hurt herself. At least she hadn't reached for the vodka. Dropping the broom and pan, he demanded, "Show me your feet. Come on."

She watched him, shiny unshed tears in her eyes, but stuck out her feet for examination. The tears started rolling down her face and she began to sob.

"Are you hurt? Did you cut yourself?" She shook her head and when he tipped up her toes, the soles of her feet were unmarked. "Well, then why are you crying?" She shook her head again. He looked at her uncertainly but decided his best course of action was to ignore the emotional outburst. Probably just the booze talking anyway. He'd heard plenty of that over the years.

With the floor cleared, he waved Marta back into position. She was still sniffling. She had her practice moves down, so he decided on sparring. "Try to take me," he ordered. He did the little hand wave from "The Matrix" and smiled an invitation. Kenny Kitsom had loved action movies. He'd wanted to be a hero like Neo so badly. Aaron Cross knew better. There were no heroes, only villains. Even him. And Neo had died in the last movie anyway. H*ll of a role model.

"I'll slow down. Don't worry," he assured her and executed a threatening punch towards her face to get her moving.

Flipping a clumsy deflection, Marta stepped forward for balance, and right into his hold. Twisting her around, in exactly two seconds he had her right arm behind her and her neck locked back against his shoulder with the other. She smelled of old sweat, old booze and fear.

She sagged. "You should just kill me now," she wailed softly. "I'll never make it. I can't fight. I can't help you anymore. I can't even sweep the fxxking floor. Just kill me."

He resisted the urge to yelp a horrified, "What? No!" and hop away. Instead he dragged her to their only chair. He'd been expecting something like this. "Sit," he said. She sat.

Stroking her sweaty, matted hair, he leaned over and whispered into her ear, "Are you sure this is what you want?"

She nodded, sniffling and sobbing. "You'll do it quick, won't you?"

He kissed her head and her flushed cheeks then he let his hands wander to the right places to break a neck or choke out a life, killer's choice. As his arms tightened, Marta's hands came up to cover his but didn't fight him. Her frantic heartbeat seemed to fill the room, her breathing came in quick gasps. He let the moment drag on and on, ratcheting in his arms by slow degrees. Marta's hands began to claw at his. Her breathing struggled and her fists beat at him. He could taste her fear. Only then did he ease off. Leaning over and he said softly into her ear. "Don't ever ask me to do that again."

Releasing her quickly, he grabbed his jacket and left, stuffing his wallet and fake Russian passport in his pocket as he walked out the door. She sat in the chair curled over, gasping and crying.

After Aaron left, Marta sat in the chair a long time. Her heart gradually slowed down. She looked around the small room, seeing the thrift shop grade furniture, the litter and the unmade bed as if for the first time.

Most of the mess was her fault. For the last week she'd drank and slept and little else. Taking the broom that still rested against the wall she began to clean. The half full vodka bottle went out with the trash. When she finished cleaning the room, she took their single towel down the hall to the shower and cleaned herself too. She spent the afternoon practicing her Tai Chi moves and made a cold dinner from not quite spoiled leftovers. Later, after an evening spent staring at the wall and listening to the clamor out on the street, she stripped down to her underwear and lay on the bed to wait for Aaron. He'd come back. He had to. She had no plan for tomorrow and very little memory of yesterday. Without the booze she was once again afraid to die. In a bad way it felt good.

About 0100 local Aaron slipped back into the room. On the table he tossed their new American passports, South Seas Cruise Line employment forms, and a miscellany of makeup, hair scissors, hair gel, and hair dye. He glanced around the room. Marta had cleaned up. The vodka was gone. She lay on the bed with her eyes closed. He could tell from her quick breathing that she was either awake or on the verge of a nightmare.

He hadn't slept for three days but would need at least three hours tonight in preparation for tomorrow. One way or another it would be a busy day. Stripping down to his boxer shorts, he lay down next to Marta on the bed. Turning his back to her like he always did, he began the deep breathing exercises that would put him asleep in less than a minute.

A hand stroked his back, and he stopped trying to fall asleep. He held himself as still as possible. Marta never touched him in bed. They shared it only because that's the way flop rooms were furnished – one bed, one table, one chair, one toilet behind a curtain and one rusty sink. Tropic cockroaches made the floor untenable for sleep. He made their one bed work by sleeping the absolute minimum, and he didn't let himself care if Marta saw him half naked. She'd already seen all of him there was to see in the Sterisyn lab, helplessly unconscious and at his flaccid, deflated worst.

It was funny. He just didn't care what she saw. It didn't seem important. It was like back when he was Kenny and ran away from the Berwin dorm. The endless parade of bigger, stronger, and smarter bullies would get to be too much and he'd just take off for a few days. The overworked Berwin staff didn't care as long as he came back. He'd found a refuge where nudity was the norm. Kenny hadn't cared. He'd cared about being loved.

Every inch of Marta was precious. Even before they'd gone on the run together, he'd treasured memories of her, calling them up when it was dark and lonely. They'd been other women and he'd f**ked more than one for flag and country. But his mind came back to Marta. Now that he knew her beyond their thirteen lab visits, he needed to have her close by to touch, to breathe in, to argue with and to care about. He was addicted to her and he knew it.

Marta's hand stole up to his neck. He felt her breath ruffle his hair, the bedclothes rustling as she moved closer. He looked over his shoulder. Her face was intent, focused on what she was doing. She didn't look into his eyes. He rolled onto his back. She pulled herself closer and began stroking his chest and kissing whatever she could reach, his arm, his chest, his lips.

He held himself still, passive, waiting for her to do what she wanted. Her hands wandered over him, touching, feeling. His body reacted in the usual way. He let it. Clothes went, she pulled herself up on top of him and he held her while she took what she needed. Afterwards they slept in each other's arms.

The next day they stuck to business, almost afraid of the night before and what it might mean. He told her a version of his plan, not the truth but close enough to scare her – the States, Sterisyn headquarters, Colonel Byers. Back on the Stinky Rose smuggler, she'd refused his plan to sell her Outcome knowledge to the Russians, Chinese or North Koreans. He wasn't going to them alone and leave her unprotected. So with that door closed, the only option was an attack. Since most of his resources and potential allies were in the States, he had to risk a return home. She could stay here and hide among Hong Kong's millions or she could come with him. It was the truth as far as it went.

Reno would be their first stop.

They spent the day cutting and bleaching Marta's hair. She didn't look good blonde but it matched the blurry photo on her new passport.

When she'd commented on his obvious skill with the scissors, he'd smiled and admitted that Kenny Kitsom had once held a Nevada beautician's license, his chosen career. He'd taken the exam three times before he passed, and only joined the Army after the September 11 attacks. He had wanted to be hero so badly. Marta had giggled about that for hours.

Aaron's military cut hadn't been buzzed for more than a month and was just about long enough to spike. That and quick strokes of liner under his eyes made a startling difference in his facial contours. He slathered on Marta a ridiculous amount of eye shadow and blush and an intensely red lipstick. She didn't recognize herself in the mirror. Towards evening they took their employment applications to the docks and boarded the Rainbow Seas.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

San Francisco

They'd been hopping buses all day on their way to San Jose to retrieve Aaron's stash car. He was uneasy. Surely Byer had analyzed his movements for the last four years down to the nanosecond, and even though he had always wrapped tinfoil around the locator capsule in his leg when he wanted to be off grid, they could have tailed him. This stash could be compromised. There was no way to tell until they got there.

He wasn't absolutely sure that it was Colonel Byer that had been chasing them around the world, but it smelled like him. Never got his hands dirty, that one. Loved his high tech. and control rooms and his science teams. He and Marta had been running from drones, genetically programmed mass murderers, CIA assassination teams and souped up soldiers, but there hadn't been a field commander out there directing the action. That was how Byer preferred to run things, hiding back at home base. His specialty had always been the well spoken lie. Aaron could almost hear him, "You signed up to protect America from monsters, soldier. Now you're the monster. You need to go down. Give yourself up." Kenny Kitsom had taken the greens and blues to be a hero, but it hadn't worked. Was he a monster? Maybe. He wasn't really human anymore. Marta was the most human part of him. He needed her so he wouldn't forget how.

This was their last bus transfer. The car was in an abandoned 10 acre construction project west of town, out where green lawns changed to dusty lots and dead power lines sprouted from the ground in great meshes.

But they weren't there yet.

The sun hung low on the horizon, the air gently steaming off the sidewalk. It had rained in the afternoon. The weather was mild. Around them blue collar workers headed home from long days of pumping gas and selling groceries. Marta and Aaron fit right in, wearing working clothes and baseball caps pulled down low to hide their faces from any bus cameras. Aaron still carried the navy blue backpack that had followed him around the world.

Two boys dressed in dark red gang hoodies and about a pound each of silver and gold chains harassed adults. The kids were Marta's size, skinny with unfulfilled manhood. They looked 16 and acted 25, b*tchin' this and sh*ttin' that. Obvious bulges outlined pistols and knives – obvious to him anyway. When they weren't eyeing the prettiest women, including Marta, the boys smacked knuckles or talked on their smart phones. Can you say cliché? They were living it.

Aaron stood behind Marta and wrapped his arms around her protectively. Her head turned to look at him. He shook his. "We'll be home soon, sweetheart," he said and kissed her forehead, aiming for an affectionate husband vibe. His fingers played with the wedding band she'd been wearing for a few weeks now. He wondered where she'd gotten it and why she wore it. He liked it on her, but he didn't know if she was saying something to him with it. More quietly he added, "Keep your eyes on the bangers. Don't forget your Tai Chi." She nodded.

His eyes never left the pair of bangers, which was probably a mistake. The larger of the two snickered and elbowed his bud, nodding in Aaron and Marta's direction. "Cop," Aaron read on his lips. The boy pulled out his smartphone again and turned away. When he turned back he had a big grin on his face.

Sh*t. Why did trouble follow him around? He was just riding the bus, for Chr*ssakes!

A red and silver bus pulled up. Pushing and swearing the two boys bullied their way to the head of the line, dropped their fare into the box then shoved each other back and forth down the aisle.

Marta sighed and grabbed the nearest pole as the folding bus lurched forward, see-sawing a little at the mid-bus join, her plastic cruise ship bag still in her hand. The bus wasn't supposed to move until all passengers were seated, but they were half of the way back. The driver might not even be able to see them. There were empty seats left, but they were on the far side of the gang bangers that Aaron had warned her about.

Aaron had held her back so they were last to board the bus. He'd looked around while they waited like he expected another bus or a friend or something and she'd assumed they'd take the next one, but he'd shoved her on at the last minute. Today, he had not been the gentle, affectionate lover. His every touch twanged tension. He'd hustled them away from the cruise ship docks with few words and a lot of fast walking, pushing and pulling.

After several hours of bus riding, Marta needed a toilet, a meal and a nap, in that order.

Ahead of her Aaron used both hands to balance, grabbing seat backs as he walked down the aisle toward two open seats. When he reached the bangers, the one on the aisle stuck out a foot, obviously expecting to trip him. Seeming to fall accidentally into the boy's lap, Aaron smacked the boy's head into an adjacent pole and stamped on his foot. When the other boy swore and reached for something under his hoodie - probably a gun or knife - Aaron hit him in the face with an elbow. "Oh, my! I'm sorry. I'm so clumsy!" he exclaimed as he leapt back onto his feet. He had made it look easy, but Marta could barely stand in the rattling bus.

Aaron frisked the two boys under the guise of straightening their clothes and checking them for injuries. He tucked a pistol into his waistband and passed a folded up jack knife to Marta, all with sleight of hand movements. One boy had a bloody nose, the other was wagging his head, trying to clear it. They looked even younger up close. The bus stopped at an intersection and Aaron quickly pulled Marta the rest of the way down the aisle and into their seats.

Their bus driver, a heavy set man with dark skin, either didn't see what had happened or didn't care. Their fellow commuters read books, napped and listened to Ipods. It was almost fully dark outside. The two boys were recovering and were definitely not happy.

"Okay, smart guy, what now?" Marta whispered to Aaron. At times it seemed she had two modes with Aaron, no, make that three – attraction, terror and annoyance. Right now she simultaneously wanted him to kiss her so hard she couldn't breathe, protect her like a suit of armor and explain at least a little bit of what was going on. Add to that a Marta-sized dollop of doctor/patient responsibility and her feelings for Aaron got really complicated.

"He called friends. We wait for the friends." He looked out the window and down. Marta saw nothing out there but a big SUV that looked black in the already black evening, but it could have been any dark color, including red. "Ah, and here they are." He turned toward her. "Give me back the knife." As she passed it back over, he continued, "We're getting off at the next stop. Be ready to move fast." He pulled the bus cord, and Marta could see the by-now familiar bus stop sign coming up. The area was industrial, abandoned. A single street light illuminated the bus stop. No one waited for the bus and when they stepped down the back bus exit onto the sidewalk, no one else got off with them - except the bangers, who stumbled down, still not quite coordinated. Just as the bus doors started to close, Aaron shoved Marta back on.

Horrified, Marta ran down the aisle to the bus's back bench where three weary commuters looked up at her questioningly. "Excuse me, excuse me," she said, trying to look over their heads at the scene unfolding at the bus stop behind them. The SUV had pulled up under the streetlight but she could see no one standing there. Suddenly two bright flashes lit up the interior of the SUV.

Frantic, Marta yanked the stop cord again. "Let me off! Let me off!" she screamed at the driver who seemed a quarter of a mile away at the far end of the bus. He apparently heard the desperation in her voice. Perhaps he thought she saw a wreck or some other disaster because against company policy, he pulled over and opened the back door in mid-block. She scrambled down and out and was running back toward Aaron in seconds. She'd forgotten her cruise bag and her hat. She'd forgotten everything but Aaron.


	5. Chapter 5

Author's note: BLM is the U. S. Bureau of Land Management, a government agency that manages the vast tracts of federal public land in the American west.

Author's confession: I don't know much about guns, driving and stuff like that. If you do, please forgive my mistakes.

Chapter 5

"You know you didn't have to kill them," Marta said. She was angry. And tired. And inclined to whine.

"D*mn right, ya didn't hafta kill 'em. They were my cousins," the larger boy – his name was Randy – accused from the back seat. Aaron had left the two boys ungagged, a decision he now regretted. They'd complained non-stop across all of California. And as the Escalade neared the Nevada border had begun fighting the duct tape holding them in place. Useless, of course, but the fear of something or someone goaded them.

Aaron glanced in the rear view mirror. "You killed them, Randy. They died the moment you called them." He used the full crazy soldier act. These boys respected violence and not much else.

The other boy, Randy's brother Javier, exclaimed, "Bullsh*t! You're with the Spots, aren'tcha? After our product." Up close in the dim car lights, Javier looked even younger than he had on the bus, probably thirteen, big for his age but still a child, or he should have been.

Randy and Javier's "product" was heroin, small plastic-wrapped bricks of what looked like Mexican brown, all zipped up nice and neat in a dusky red Eddie Bauer duffle. Randy's cousins had been about to leave on a delivery run to Reno, or so the boy figured. He'd just called them in for fun. Because a lone copper made a nice target, and Javier was looking to make his first kill. With back up, of course. This all came out in the three hour drive across California to Nevada.

It seems Randy's uncle in Reno was trying to break into the business of dealing drugs to the international lowlifes that favored the big gambling oasis. Like all new businesses every loss hurt, especially a major one like this. Aaron figured Uncle Whomever would fold within the week without this delivery.

Marta sat shotgun, quite literally because she held a medium barreled pump action 12 gauge across her lap. There had been plenty of ammo for it in the Escalade, and Aaron had loaded it with heavy shot alternating with slugs. Serious firepower. The heavy shot was like firing 4 or 5 bullets all at once, the slugs like small missiles. The shotgun didn't have a lot of range but close up it would be murderous.

When Marta came running up to the Escalade, screaming "Aaron! Aaron!" at the top of her lungs, he'd just finished dragging the two dead men into the back. Marta needed more clothes, so he stripped the two unconscious boys and was wrapping their hands and feet to the back seat with a handy roll of duct tape he'd found in the back. He didn't know what he was going to do with them, but he didn't kill children, not anymore. The reasonably clean hoodie and sweat pants fit Marta well enough. She didn't like putting them on. Petty theft still bothered her. That was a good thing, Aaron told himself. Human beings felt guilty for things like killing and stealing.

She'd held onto him sobbing for a minute, fighting to overcome her fear that he'd been hurt. It made him feel strange to know that she cared so much. Made him feel more a hero and less a villain. All Kenny Kitsom had ever wanted to be was a hero. Aaron Cross had lost sight of that.

Aaron hadn't had time to wipe all the blood off his hands. Taking out the two men out had been … messy. He preferred clean kills but it wasn't always possible. The Escalade would need a serious detailing sometime in the future, blood and brains covered the leather back seat and squished under the boys' butts. Gruesome, but they'd planned something worse for him and Marta. The silver and gold chains went into the back pack along with the two Desert Eagles the men had been carrying and a box of ammo. Marta had the back pack at her feet. Good ole trusty back pack.

Marta had gasped when she saw the blood on his hands. "I'm okay. I'm okay." He'd wiped off most of the blood on the dead men's clothes then cleaned the rest off later at a rest stop on I-80, grinning at the other travelers and saying, "Wife cut her hand peeling an orange. Dxmned potholes, am I right? I ask you, am I right?" In Sacramento, he'd bought for dinner two bags of Cokes, Big Macs and fries. He'd been the only one to eat. Marta was still too freaked out and the boys … they'd never admit it but they too were freaked.

But thanks to them, they now had a comfortable car that he was sure Byer didn't know about, two smart phones they could use for at least another day, and a collection of weapons and ammunition.

For the first time since the drone had nearly taken him out in Alaska, Aaron was truly happy. Byer could watch his stash car in San Jose until Kingdom Come. This was better, much better. The Escalade would get them where they needed to go, or close enough. He'd probably wreck it with the bodies near Reno. The bodies didn't smell, not yet. He needed to get to Reno before they started smelling. Marta wouldn't like that. The boys … well, he'd just wait and see.

In the mirror he saw Randy lean back and moan. "You're going to get us all killed. Why're you going to Reno? Couldn't you go to Vegas?" There was something bothering that boy.

"Why?" Aaron demanded. "Who's after us?"

Javier said, "The Spots! They want our product. They'll be coming out of Reno for us. We usually convoy up to deliver but now they'll get us for sure!"

Aaron could question them for an hour and not get a much better explanation. Some things weren't that easy to analyze, especially the addled plans of small time hoods. The Spots were apparently a rival gang, but it was hard to be sure. The boys lied just about as fast as they could talk. But not well, they didn't have much control over their facial telltales. That had been one of the first things Aaron had been taught after he'd started taking the blues and greens – how to read faces and spot liars. Marta was a terrible liar. Her face betrayed every emotion. He'd loved watching her react to him in the red lab. She thought she was being so cool, so professional, and he could read everything she was thinking and feeling. Even smell it sometimes, particularly when she was turned on or afraid. The blessings of enhancement. The doctors who gave them the drugs didn't seem to fully absorb what it did to them.

It was the dxmned drugs that had the boys worried. Of course, the fly in the ointment. The mouse in the cream. The … Aaron stopped trying to think of more clichés when something big and heavy slammed into the back of the Escalade and the steering wheel jerked out of his hands. A few yards behind them a white semi was just changing lanes and accelerating to pull up beside them. Its trailer must be empty for it to be moving so fast. Aaron could just make out a gun barrel stuck out of the passenger side of the cab. He stomped on the gas, urging more speed out of the Escalade.

This was what he had liked best about being enhanced – seeing all the details, evaluating the situation and being ready to fight back in seconds. Well, that and being a hero for his country. He glanced around taking in the four lane highway with a sunken, gravel median. They were on a moderate up slope, the last one before the road started sinking down to Reno. On their right, a fall off down to a creek. On the left, beyond the westbound lanes, hill cuts alternated with shallow canyons. Bathed in moonlight, the lightly wooded countryside looked like the tail end of a national forest or the beginning of BLM range land. They'd left the snow behind in the Sierras.

Watching the semi, the boys were screaming. Marta was screaming too. "Marta, the shotgun!" Aaron shouted at her as he fought to stay in control of the car. "Aim it out my window!" He used the power controls to lower his window, and lowered all the windows in his haste. They didn't have much time. He glanced at her. Her face was a wide-eyed mask of terror, but she had rotated the shotgun so it pointed toward the driver's side and a second later the barrel was across his chest and resting on the windowsill. Working the pump action she chambered the first shell. Aaron wrapped his left arm over the top of the gun to keep it from hitting him in the face when she fired. They were flying down the road at 85 miles per hour. The semi was struggling to keep up but would be on them in another few seconds.

"Wait for my signal!" he shouted. "Aim for the cab!" Shooting the engine might take it out, and then again, it might not. Shooting the front tires would bring the semi into their lane and wreck their car. She'd do better trying for the driver, the shooter or the front windshield. The cab. The cab. He hoped she understood.

The Escalade roared with cold crosscurrents from the open windows, violent at 85 miles per hour. He could see the tail lights of some car or truck up ahead. They were gaining on it fast. The head lights behind them were two miles back, maybe less. The semi was almost in position. He felt the shotgun barrel press into his chest as Marta tried to get an angle. A sudden chatter of automatic fire cut through the road noise. "Fire! Shoot!" he screamed.

The big shotgun jumped against his restraining arm. The semi swerved a little but kept going. Marta's first shell was the heavy shot and multiple bullet holes had bloomed in the semi's cab door, but its window still held a gun barrel, backed by a pair of dark arms, and the blur of a face. The shooter was using a submachine gun. Had to be. Drug lords and their toys.

The machine gun started chattering again. Whoever was using it didn't know how to manage a machine gun, and it kicked around a lot. The shots were all behind them.

"Again!" he yelled and felt Marta pull the shotgun slide to chamber a fresh shell. The empty one popped out and smacked against the lit dash. Then the shotgun boomed and this time it was the slug. It tore a hole the size of a baby's fist through the semi's door. The shooter's face disappeared and the semi swerved left toward the sunken median, plowing into the gravel fill. The semi's trailer followed the cab down. The gravel, the dead or disabled driver and the inertia of 85 miles per hour tipped the semi over on its side where it kept sliding, jackknifing, sparking and howling tortured metal.

Aaron let their speed drop. They had made it, and he was about to tell Marta so when a sedan filled with Looky-Lou's who were paying more attention to the sliding wreck than to the road plowed into their back end. Hard.

Aaron couldn't control the Escalade, unstable with all of its windows still down and the frame compromised by the smacking around. They skidded to the right side of the road, across the narrow margin then slid head first down a steep hill of scree and brush. Aaron wrestled the steering wheel, trying to keep them from tumbling or rolling over. Hitting the bottom of the slope, all four of the Escalade's front and side airbags deployed.

The other car apparently had better luck maintaining control. It didn't follow them down.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

Marta didn't pass out. She didn't scream. Or cry. She gasped and shuddered as she evaluated her body, wagging her toes, fingers and neck as the air bags deflated. Her wrists hurt some, probably from holding the shotgun. It still rested against Aaron's chest and had fouled the driver's side airbags deployment - not completely but the bags obviously hadn't protected Aaron as much as her. He had a slowly bleeding cut on the side of his face.

But he was moving. After watching him a moment Marta realized he was cutting away her air bags and seat belt with Randy's jack knife. That made her think of the two boys and she tried to turn around to look at them. Aaron's hand on her face stopped her. "Don't look," he said. "They're dead, the machine gun, I think. Are you hurt?"

Marta had seen plenty of dead bodies in her training, but if Aaron thought it was bad …

She shook her head. "My wrists hurt some, but okay otherwise."

The passenger side door was blocked by brush so Aaron hooked his arms into her pits and pulled her out his side, as easily as if she were a child. His face softly brushed the back of her neck, then she stood shivering on the slick rocks, her head reeling, her mind replaying the slide down the steep bank, holding the shotgun, trying to keep it from going off or hitting one of them in the face. Her heart refused to slow down. She looked at the stream at the bottom of the slope. They called these little mountain trickles 'rivers' out here in the west. The front tires of the Escalade rested about an inch away from the water.

Aaron reached back into the front seat and pulled out his precious backpack then to Marta's surprise he pulled out the duffle bag of heroin. When he saw the look on her face, he said, "Drugs are money. We're going to need money, lots of it, before we're through." She didn't like it. It wasn't enough that Aaron killed and stole. Now he was going to deal drugs too.

In the east, downriver, the sky had begun to brighten, not sunrise yet, but no longer the pitch black mixed with moonlight they'd been driving in. The air stank of gasoline.

Aaron took a lighter out of the backpack. He smiled at Marta. "I'm going to be turning you into a pyromaniac here pretty quick."

She took the lighter and the spare T-shirt he handed her. "Hold still," she said and with the t-shirt dabbed at his bloody cut without much effect. She was still mad at him about the drugs, but he would never stop being her patient, her responsibility.

"We don't have time for that," he said, jerking his head away. He wiped the t-shirt in the dripping gasoline. "Light it up."

They were half way up the slope when the flames reached the gas tank, but it must have been drained pretty empty. The flash and bang didn't even knock them down. But when the ammunition they'd left behind started cooking off, Aaron pulled her along much faster.

Between pulling Marta up the long, steep slope and carrying the duffle full of drugs, even Aaron was getting a little winded.

When they were close to the road bed again, Aaron waved for her to stay put. Climbing further, he watched whatever was happening up there. She was watching him. Her head hurt, her hands hurt, her guts hurt. Aaron had half carried her most of the way upslope.

He came back down. "There are ten cars and a sheriff's cruiser with a horse trailer. Can you ride?"

Ride? Of course, she could ride in a car … then what he might mean finally clicked in. "You mean a horse? A little." Her career in virology hadn't left much time for recreation and hobbies.

"We'll be riding double. Don't worry. Come on."

"Why not steal a car?" she gasped as he pulled her along.

"Why not put up a road sign, 'Fugitives this way?'" Aaron fired back.

The horse trailer was pulled off the westbound lanes on the far side of the median. A horse stamped nervously in the trailer while the deputies tried to make sense of the wrecked semi, the front ended sedan that was stopped blocking both lanes and the car burning and banging down by the river.

The civilian drivers in the blocked eastbound lanes were practicing their God-given right to rubber neck and wandered from car to car to gossip. A couple hundred feet down the highway back west, a civilian was waving an emergency flare to keep traffic from running into them. He was focused west not toward the stopped cars.

Aaron took Marta's arm and they walked across the median, Marta doing her best to saunter. She was pretty sure she was doing a terrible job of it. The wrecked semi hadn't burned. It just lay there like a beached whale, a really messed up beached whale. An officious looking civilian waved them away from the wreck. Aaron shrugged and told Marta in a voice calculated to carry, "He don't look like a cop to me. But let's get back to the car." He continued walking toward the horse trailer.

Marta's shivering had stopped. Aaron had wrapped his $40,000 jacket around her shoulders. Maybe it was the "hot money" or maybe it was holding on to him. Marta knew Aaron was just a man, but sometimes it was easy to forget. Right now he felt like Superman.

Between soft, sweet words and a handful of grain from the trailer's storage space, Aaron managed to get a big, heavy boned sorrel gelding out and standing on the roadway. It wore a high pommel Western saddle and bridle and look well rested and ready to go. The door panels claimed that he was the property of Washoe County sheriff. His stall in the trailer was labeled, "Whirligig."

Aaron rummaged in Whirligig's saddle bags, pulled out some folded papers, and opened them for a quick study using a reflection of the cruiser's zipping bubble light for illumination. Marta knew his enhanced eyes didn't need much. He smiled broadly as he put the papers back in the bags. "Maps," he said. "I know where we are now." Marta was too tired to think through the implications. Aaron pulled the bricks of heroin out of the duffle and added them to the maps in the saddle bags. The bags hung plump behind the saddle, like a fat man's cheeks stuffed full of chewing tobacco.

"Come on, let's go. Foot in the stirrup. I'll push you up." The Western style stirrups were way too long for Marta and once mounted she found that holding the reins hurt her hands. Aaron hopped up behind her, his groin crushed into her back side. His legs fit the stirrups just fine and taking the reins from her hands, he urged the horse up one of the cuts.

It was difficult to balance in the saddle until Aaron wrapped an arm around her. Even though she was still angry about the drugs, his touch calmed her. She leaned back and relaxed against his chest. The day had been too long, and her body took over. She fell asleep.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

Marta had been asleep in Aaron's arms most of the morning. They'd finally left the wooded slopes and were now cutting across BLM open range in the general direction of Tube Peak. His watch said it was 8 a.m., the weather was gloriously clear and the temperature moderate, maybe 65 degrees.

It had been a long time since Aaron had ridden a horse, before beautician school, before the Army, before Outcome. Berwin had hired out some of its older boys to drive cattle during fall roundups. Although Kenny had loved the horses, he hadn't really liked the work. The other boys pulled pranks on him daily – like cowsh*t in his boots and dead snakes in his sleeping bag.

His stint as cowboy was probably what drove him to the beautician school, where for the most part kind little old lady customers had flirted with him. He'd enjoyed making them beautiful. And they'd liked being touched by a good looking young man.

Deputy Whirligig was an easy going soul who tolerated his double load with barely a snort. Aaron would have to dispose of him, of course. The Sheriff's office would not like being robbed, and he and Marta had enough people after them.

Miles passed. Morning became early afternoon. Then he caught the smell he'd been hoping for - the overwhelming stink of grain fed cowsh*t and urine. The feed lot/slaughterhouse five miles down the road from his destination. When they reached the feeding pens, however, they were empty. Aaron stared in disbelief. High Grade Pack had been a thriving operation just two months ago when he'd last been this way, the last time he'd been off grid, on the four day jaunt that had earned him the disciplinary trip to Alaska. His tentative plan of turning Whirligig in with the steers evaporated.

Marta stirred against his chest. "Where are we?" she managed to croak. Her throat must be dry. She'd been sleeping with her mouth open, snoring quietly. He'd gained strength just from having her close.

He took a fresh grip around Marta's waist. They could parallel the Sweet Spot Ranch's access road until they reached that ravine two miles southwest of the fence line. Then Whirligig would have to go.

But at the ravine he just couldn't do it. It felt too much like murder. Together they stripped the horse. Aaron returned the heroin to the duffle bag and slung it on one shoulder, adding it to the back pack. He tossed the saddle down a side ravine and held the Sheriff's canteen while Marta took a long drink. He finished it off and tossed it into the ravine with the rest. Taking off Whirligig's bridle, he gave him a solid slap on the rump. Whirly knew what that meant. "Go boy. Have some fun." Off he ran, snorting and tossing his head in the beautiful desert afternoon. With any luck he'd run free for a week before the sheriff caught him again.

"Two more miles," Aaron told Marta. "Can you make it?" He held out an energy bar from his back pack.

Marta shrugged. "Guess we'll find out, huh?"


	8. Chapter 8

Author's notes: I have a hard time tracking all of the Bourne universe office drone and stuffed suit bad guys, so this may be off. Watergate is a very large office, hotel and apartment complex on the Potomac not far from downtown Washington DC.

Chapter 8

Retired Air Force Colonel Eric "Ric" Byer tapped the oversize computer screen showing candid likenesses of Aaron Cross and Marta Shearing taken from their Manila tapes. "He hasn't killed her yet. That means something. Cross doesn't need Shearing anymore but we're pretty sure he hasn't killed her. Your thoughts?" Zev and Arty looked at each other then back at Byer.

Despite threats of an impending pharmaceutical apocalypse, or at the very least a heavy Wall Street sell off, Zev and Arty were the only Sterisyn Morlanta staff still working with Byer. Terrence Ward continued as a part-time liaison, but the rest of them – Dita, Turso, Kramer, and Wills – had joined the Bourne pursuit or the LARX takedown. Vosen had been in Congressional hearings non-stop. Despite popular misconceptions, the CIA has budgetary limits and patriot or not, Byer didn't work for free. If they didn't get a handle on Cross and Shearing, their funding would soon dry up. It had been three weeks without a single blip. In the meantime they'd been forced to scale back.

So the Bobsey twins met with Byer in a Watergate suite set up for world data tracking. They had satellite feeds, they had news service data feeds, and they still had some of the fancier displays and interfaces they'd used in the pursuit of Marta Shearing. Most importantly they had NSA and Homeland Security backing. They could call in resources as needed, it just would take up to eight hours to get them active.

The initial Outcome take down had made four confirmed kills – One, Three, Four and Six. In addition Two, Henry Black, had come in voluntarily. His blue meds had run out and he just walked into the Maryland lab site looking for more, his brain fried from blue med withdrawal. Without any special briefing, the guards there took him prisoner and Byer decided there might be a reason to keep him, at least until they'd disposed of Aaron Cross. So Black had been put in lock down and waited. He'd avoided assassination through pure dumb luck. The team assigned to him had been in a car wreck that had put three of the four agents in the hospital and killed the other.

Ric Byer had a plan. He'd been a trainer and field handler for three of the six active Outcome agents. He knew how Aaron Cross thought. He knew his weaknesses. Zev and Arty had some skill as analysts and had studied Cross and Shearing's files but they'd never met them. Not face to face.

Byer gave up waiting. "The blues and greens, they don't change people's emotional lives. Kenny Kitsom still lives deep down inside Aaron Cross. You remember the induction tape? Hillcott's interview? Kitsom asked if he could stay. He practically had tears in his eyes he wanted it so bad. The doctors were treating him good, with respect. He belonged." Byer leaned forward, his hands fisted on the table. "Kitsom was an orphan that grew up in a state home. He was never adopted, not even fostered. You know what he needs the most? He needs to belong. He needs to be admired. I've spent days talking with this man. He wants to be a hero."

"So Shearing is what?" Arty asked. "His girlfriend, his mother?"

"No, his family, his audience. He will never give her up." Byer turned back to the screen. "She's his weak point. Cross can take down an entire platoon if he has to, but not if it means hurting her. We're going to use Shearing to catch him. And we'll use Black to catch Shearing. She knows him like she knew Cross."

"That's what the meds are for, right? To get Black up to speed? It'll take a week at least, unless you want to try viraling him out of the blues like Cross." Byer had ordered green and blue meds made up for Black as soon as he walked in, but hadn't dispensed them yet.

"No on the viral. Black's our puppet. He doesn't even know for sure he's been viraled off the greens. He just knows he's not physically degraded yet. Let's keep him that way. He's going to be hard enough to control as it is."


	9. Chapter 9

Author's note: Prostitution is legal in most of Nevada.

Chapter 9

The Washoe County Sheriff's cruiser pulled up in front of the main Moon Bunny Mustang Ranch building. Cruisers in Nevada weren't Chrysler or Ford sedans, but large SUVs.

Marta had been watching it approach for a few miles, a plume of dust following it down the unpaved country road. It was late in the afternoon, an hour or two before sunset. Aaron had left very early yesterday morning, before the sun came up. Marta had been practicing her Tai Chi moves all afternoon, trying not to worry about him.

Auntie Amanda, a heavily made up woman of 60 years, her hair dyed a deep, glossy black, leaned over next to Marta. "That's Deputy Corny. He checks up on all the brothels once in a while. Don't know who he's got with him." She looked at the room full of johns and scantily clad women, all of whom were paying attention to each other and not to them. "Why don't you go get in the hidey?"

Her first day at the Ranch, after Marta had slept 12 hours straight, ate a heavy breakfast and had her sore hands massaged with Deep Heat, Aaron had taken her to Amanda's personal bedroom, opened a large chest decorated with Native American carvings and full of vintage Pendleton wool trade blankets in reds, blacks and greens, and shown her the hidey, a carved out space under the floorboards about the size of one smallish person, its only access through the chest. The hidey was a remnant of the Ranch's prohibition past.

"I was about ten years old the first time I came to the Ranch," Aaron had told Marta as she bent over and looked inside. "This Berwin boy Bert Cornwallis beat me up so bad I couldn't see out of one eye, so I just took off. Berwin's about 8 miles that away," he waved toward the ranch house's back wall, "and I got here about midnight. Auntie Amanda took me in, told me I could stay anytime I wanted. Eventually I went back to Berwin and Bert got adopted, lucky b*stard, but this is where I came whenever it got too bad." He reloaded the blankets and clicked the lid back down. "I used the hidey if anyone came looking for me."

He sat down on the chest and she sat down next to him. "All my life, I've kept this place separate. No one at Berwin, or in the Army, or Sterisyn or NRAG knows about this place. I worked very hard to make sure. Even when I was Kenny, I was careful." He looked serious. "You believe me, don't you?"

She'd told him what she thought. "It's not fair. You get to go home and I don't."

"I know." His face shifted. He was going to try to distract her. "Auntie Amanda taught me most of what I know about hairdressing." His beautician career always got a laugh out of her. He touched her blonde head. "Would you like to be brunette again?"

The next morning two of the girls, a pair of petite, shockingly red headed girls who always "played" together – Tawny and Fawny – helped him change Marta's hair color back to her usual highlighted auburn brown. Sweet, humble Kenny had a lot of friends among the prostitutes. He did favors – moving furniture, hanging pictures, tossing out unruly johns - and they treated him like a baby brother.

They set up in the brothel's kitchen/dining room, the unofficial retreat where the working girls went when they were "off duty." They spread newspaper over the old linoleum and brought out a huge pile of ragged towels. First Tawny, or maybe it was Fawny, trimmed Aaron's hair back to a buzz cut that skirted military specs with what she called "cute sideburns", then he'd donned an apron and rubber gloves and Marta had sat in an ancient chrome and vinyl kitchen chair while he worked on her hair. Fawny, or maybe it was Tawny, turned on the new flat screen TV that hung over an ancient fireplace and logged into a Hulu Plus account. "Gotta watch my 'Beauty and the Beast' episode," she said. "Never miss." In a few minutes they were all watching two good looking young people emoting on screen.

Aaron glanced at it while he worked. Marta imagined that he almost never bothered with evening TV programming. "Hey, I thought Beauty and the Beast was about castles and stuff," he said right after the onscreen Beast, a character named Vincent or something like that, jumped off an office building and landed two stories down on the street, stood up and walked away. Marta had seen Aaron do that, more than once.

"Oh, no, no. This is an updated version," Tawny or maybe it was Fawny said. "Vincent is a American soldier in the Middle East and see he volunteers to take these drugs and be changed into a superman, only it doesn't work out and the government kills all of his buddies, 'cause the drugs made them dangerous and they're afraid he's going to expose them."

"No, it wasn't the government, it's the medicine company." Obviously the girls had the entire plot memorized. "I can't remember the name of it, something that starts with 'm'."

"Was it Morlanta?" Aaron asked.

"Muirfield," Auntie Amanda said from the door that led to the front room. She walked to the back door and opened it. "Stinks in here."

"Oh yeah, Muirfield," Tawny/Fawny agreed. "And his girl Catherine helps him hide because he's such a good guy."

"And a total dream boat." The other girl was watching Dreamboat kiss the object of his affection on TV. She sighed. Apparently even working girls crush on actors.

"But he's a monster," Aaron protested. He'd stopped working on Marta's hair and just stood staring at the TV. There was a close up of Vincent now passionately pleading with Catherine to "let me go." A long, ragged scar ran down the side of Vincent's face. Mesmerized, Aaron raised a gloved hand and traced the same line down his own face, leaving a streak of hair dye behind.

"Hey, Kenny, you boob, you're messing up your face," Tawny/Fawny scolded him. "Here you sit down and I'll finish Marta. You're going to mess up her hair something awful." One of the pair grabbed a towel and started scrubbing the hair dye off Aaron's cheek before it could stain. The other stepped up to finishing Marta's dye job.

Aaron sat down, looking stunned, but the girls seemed to write off his reaction. Kenny Kitsom was not known for his intellect and it was just a TV show. Marta sympathized with him. It was creepy how close his own story paralleled Beauty and the Beast.

That evening Aaron dragged one of the loveseats from the front lounge into the dining room, and Tawny and Fawny who were off duty because of their "monthlies" treated Marta and Aaron to a half dozen back episodes of Beauty and the Beast, declaring they'd like nothing better than to create new fans. Marta wondered in passing about her own missing "monthly" that should have happened on the cruise ship. It didn't worry her much. She'd stopped using birth control after she split up with Peter Boyd, and her "monthlies" still weren't always monthly, particularly when stressed. It had been a long time since she'd thought of Peter. He seemed to belong to another world, a lifetime ago.

Aaron, of course, was sterile. It had been one of the unhappier side effects of the blues and greens. The chemicals that assured adhesion did bad things to sperm.

In homage to their supposed affiance, Aaron and Marta sat together in front of the lit fireplace, the loveseat guaranteeing a snuggly fit. The girls put out popcorn and sodas. Acting the lover, Aaron started playing with Marta's hands, not just holding them, but measuring them against his own, pinching the knuckles to see how they moved, bending fingers, and feeling the skin, muscle and bones in the palm. Aaron's own hands were large with long fingers and big joints that for anyone else might have promised arthritis in his future. The hand massage felt good. Marta's hands still ached from the car wreck.

She hadn't cuddled with a guy and watched TV since junior high. In high school and her many years of college she'd studied non-stop. After college her career at Sterisyn had sucked up every spare moment. There'd been Peter off and on, but that relationship had been pretty much all in bed. He'd left for good when she'd bought the house in the woods to renovate. He'd felt she should have spent more time on him and less time on "just doing."

Aaron let her hands drop back to her lap, distracted by Vincent and Catherine's improbably angsty adventures. He was fascinated with the show, especially the episode when Vincent's "condition" started degrading and he lost control of his inner monster.

Marta picked up Aaron's hand and kissed the palm, her lips brushing where she'd examined a bad cut in the red lab just a few months ago. Like Peter it seemed a lifetime. Aaron used his hand to bring their heads and lips together. His soft kiss was warmer than the fireplace. It was incredibly relaxing.

Close by, sitting together in an overstuffed chair, Tawny and Fawny elbowed each other and giggled. Aaron's head turned to look at them. It was hard to be sure in the flickering light of the fireplace and the TV screen, but Marta thought he might be blushing. The two girls hugged each other. One said, "You go, Kenny!"

Auntie Amanda may have seen it too. She seemed to know everything that happened in her establishment. That night she decided Aaron and Marta needed a romantic getaway, and since it was all she had to offer, she sent them to the barn. She'd noticed he wasn't sleeping with his girl in the main Ranch building. Probably thought he was shy around his friends. In reality he hadn't slept at all.

The Sweet Spot Ranch kept no animals (other than the rowdier johns, of course). The barn was exclusively for guests who wanted a "roll in the hay" experience.

When Auntie Amanda led them out there, she said, "Now you two don't worry. I'll just tell them someone has booked the barn for a few nights." She stopped and patted Aaron's cheek. "I'm just so glad you've found someone, Kenny." She gave him a peck on the cheek and a hug.

Hugging back, he lifted her off her feet and twirled her around. "So am I! Ain't she special?"

"Whoo!" Amanda squealed. "I declare you get stronger every time I see you! The Army must be feeding you good. And don't say 'ain't'! You know better than that! You'll never get a promotion, if you can't use proper English."

Aaron had laid a mattress on six hay bales jammed together and added sheets, pillows and a blanket. "I need to sleep tonight," he'd told Marta, dropping his Kenny act. The night before she'd slept alone in one of the brothel bedrooms.

Marta smiled, "Of course. How are you feeling? Any issues?" she asked, hopefully with the right balance of interest and professional calm, but Aaron had this way of seeing right through her. "How about that cut on your face? Does it hurt?" She could see that it had already healed to a small pink scar, but it might still be painful.

It annoyed him when she acted the doctor, and the annoyance stripped away his awkwardness. "No. I'm fine. After you." He gestured toward the bed.

To provoke him she took the side closest to the door, which he usually preferred, ever the knight in shining armor. The air smelled of sweet, fresh straw. Dust motes danced in the light of a propane lamp hanging on a post, then Aaron clicked it off. She felt the mattress shift when he lay down. She lay on her back looking up at open rafters that gradually became clearer in the star light. She waited for Aaron to go through his breathing exercises and fall asleep like he always did. They'd been in each other's arms earlier, acting like sweethearts for the benefit of Amanda's girls, but she needed more than kissing and making out. God, did she just think "making out"? They'd gone far beyond that in Hong Kong, but that had been weeks ago, the memory of it a dream. Now she couldn't even be sure it had really happened.

Fingers brushed her arm, began exploring her breasts. The rustle of a body sliding across sheets. "Marta." Just her name and then his lips were on hers and her mouth was full of his taste, salty, strong. And he was over her, his weight a sweet burden and they were together in all the places that counted.

It wasn't until early morning after he'd gotten the sleep he needed and she was bonelessly relaxed against his side that he'd started the argument, she suspected to make it easier to leave her.

He wanted her to hide here. "It's safe," he'd said. There was no safe place on Earth for her, Marta told him and if she had to die somewhere she'd just as soon die fighting.

Aaron had one of the smart phones they'd inherited from Randy and Javier. She had the other. Although the signal out here was poor and she couldn't seem to get a call out, he'd had no problems calling her. Yesterday he'd called twice, once to apologize for the argument, once to say good night. She'd told him, "I love you," because Auntie Amanda had been standing next to her asking, "Is that Kenny? Tell him to pick up the mail on his way home." The "I love you" had just come out. Marta was supposed to be his fiancée, they were supposed to be in love. The wedding ring she'd rescued from the cruise ship trash had been admired over and over by every working girl on the ranch. She played with it on her finger. It had begun to feel natural there.

Deputy Corny stopped to talk with the unknown man, who turned to look at the ranch building. Marta gasped. "Oh my god!" She knew him. It was Outcome Participant Two.


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

Aaron had spent most of the first day driving around Reno in the borrowed Moon Bunny van, reacquainting himself with his city, and tracing Randy and Javier's uncle. It had turned out to be surprisingly easy to identify him – Joachim Torres, who used the entire east wing penthouse of the Gilded Palace Casino. Aaron had found him by reading the newspaper. While the newspaper ostensibly analyzed Torres' recent acquisition of the Gilded Palace gambling operation, it wasn't hard to read between the lines.

Besides the article on Torres, there had been a front page spread about the messy wreck up on the pass, but no mention of Randy and Xavier. Aaron had turned both the ring and the vibrate off on the smart phone. Randy had a lot of friends and relatives. He'd called Marta twice. The second time she'd said, "See you soon. I love you. Auntie says pick up the mail."

Marta had said, "I love you." His head kept repeating that. He was sure that she'd said it as part of their "young lovers" cover, but his brain wouldn't let it go. She'd let him make love to her before he'd left. When he'd lain down next to her in the barn, he could smell that she wanted him. She smelled sweet and hot, like she had all evening. It wasn't the first time she'd smelled like that, of course, but this time he couldn't hold himself back, couldn't turn it off. With Marta he no longer had control.

Was Marta his Catherine, was he her Vincent? Was he a monster, the Beast, or was he Outcome Five, Aaron Cross and a soldier?

If he told Marta he loved her, would there be a future for them? How could she ever want a damaged man like him? Besides all his emotional baggage, he was sterile. Doctor Hillcott had told him that drawback before he'd even started the greens and blues. It hadn't bothered him then. He was an orphan, his childhood had been h*ll. He had no desire for kids.

When he'd signed the papers and agreed to this future he was living, he hadn't realized it might be like this, that there might a future for him where children would be a blessing not a curse. A lawyer could probably make a good case that Kenny Kitsom had been mentally incompetent and should not have been allowed to make binding legal commitments. It was too late now.

Making contact with Torres had been complicated mostly by Aaron's need to avoid casino cameras. He could use the hat trick to hide his face but he needed freedom of movement. Besides casinos had heavy security. There was no reason to stir up trouble, so he figured it was best to go in unarmed.

He spent the first night and part of today in various guard, server, busboy and cook uniforms, lifting service passkeys and looking over Torres' penthouse (a garish atrocity decorated in orange, green and enough chrome for a whole fleet of Cadillacs), watching Torres' crew move around the huge hotel, and tweaking the guard station camera timing. He used only service corridors and service elevators where cameras were few and far between. He even rigged some surprises for Torres' around the penthouse and in the elevator shafts, just in case things went south. A few chemicals and glass bottles pilfered from grounds maintenance and household, a handful of disposable cell phones and circuit boards, and voila, a death trap on the sixtieth floor.

After he'd seen enough, he split up and hid the heroin – one package among a nest of electrical conduits in a sub-basement and the other on top of an elevator. He'd been a ghost that no one really saw or remembered.

He started with a fact: Someone on Torres' crew must have leaked information to the Spots rival gang about their Escalade's license plate and when it might be driving to Reno with the heroin delivery. After watching them for a while, Aaron decided it was a lieutenant who spent a lot of time excusing himself to take private phone calls. He heard and lip read snatches of those conversations, "He doesn't know … I can get … Have it ready." It was pretty thin evidence, but he'd risk it. He didn't have much to lose. If this didn't work out, he'd take Marta to Chicago and try something else to get the money he needed to take down Sterisyn headquarters in Washington. He'd just stumbled on this opportunity, thanks to Randy and Javier, the bad bus ride that just kept on giving.

That second evening Aaron sat in the Moon Bunny van watching the front entrance as the casino buses came and went, loading and unloading dozens of granny and grampy gamblers and Chinese tourists. He was still unsure how to get in and out of the main casino safely. Around eight a bus arrived disgorging about twenty people, all dressed in shiny white jumpsuits trimmed with crystals that sparkled as they staggered into the building and little capes that did absolutely nothing to keep them warm. They all had 1950's black pompadours, most of which were obviously wigs, and wore enormous sunglasses. Elvis had returned to Nevada, in multiples.

Aaron had an idea. Taking out Randy's smart phone, he called up the picture he'd made of the bricks of Mexican brown neatly stacked with a sign reading, "Let's make a deal." He sent it to Torres' email address. Randy had more than two hundred entries in his smart phone address book. But once Aaron knew who he was looking for, Torres' hadn't been hard to find.

A half hour later he got a reply while he was shopping in an all night costume shop that he had loved as a kid. In Reno every day and every night is Halloween. Taking the van's Moon Bunny magnetic door decals off outside the costume shop, he drove to the farthest occupied reaches of the Gilded Palace's 20 acre parking lot, chose a spot with two similar vans close by, parked, changed into the costume's white tights, broad belt and sequined knit shirt and pulled on the wig and glasses, just another Elvis among many.

Sauntering toward the front entrance, he told himself, "You belong. You're here to have fun. You love Elvis. Elvis loves you."

And Marta loved him too. She said so.

He felt naked walking into the lobby unarmed. He automatically clocked all the cameras and guards, but walked directly toward the clutch of Elvis impersonators at the craps tables. He slapped backs, made jokes about the unenlightened who didn't understand that Elvis was a god among men, sang choruses of "Don't Be Cruel", and generally participated in the group's fun. Eventually Torres and his crew sat down in the middle of the dining room, a hundred feet away, surrounded by empty tables. Aaron left the Elvis group and slipped into an alcove full of electronic slots, one of the blind spots he'd created earlier, where he could watch Torres without being seen. Taking out the smart phone he dialed.

Out in the dining room, Torres answered his phone by tapping a Bluetooth earbud. "Talk to me."

"How good an actor are you, Joachim? Can you keep a straight face, because you've got a spy in your crew and he's sitting right next to you."

"Who is this? Are you police?" Torres sounded suspicious and angry, but he didn't look around.

"I'm a guy who needs a job, and you're a guy who needs help. You know someone leaked about your shipment of "h". You just don't know who."

"You have my product? Did you do Randy and Javier? My sister's all over me about finding her boys." Aaron noticed he didn't mention the two adult "cousins." Apparently grown men took their chances.

"You can lay the boys on your spy. Machine gun took them out while I was trying to get us away. You'll get your product when I have your word you'll help me."

Torres' hand massaged his forehead. "You want a job?"

Aaron took a deep breath. "I want to become your supplier. I can get you product a lot cheaper and safer than that pack of clowns you've got working for you now." He and Marta would need money, a lot of it, to take down the people that were after them. Drugs were one of a tiny handful of options available to them. And he had the expertise. It wouldn't be his first drug smuggling operation. He'd played both sides, smuggler and cop. Afghanistan, Iraq, Mexico, China, bringing the world highs, lows and snoozes.

"Okay. Let's do it." It wasn't easy to read a liar this far away, but Aaron was pretty sure Torres was on the level.

Aaron told him to check the elevators for his brown. "I'll call you and let you know about the rest. Your traitor is the tall dude sitting directly across from you, wearing the string tie and pained expression." He hung up. Joachim, to do him credit, first seemed to realize that Aaron must be watching him and quickly looked around. But he couldn't see the Elvis back in the shadowed alcove. Then he turned to look at the man Aaron had fingered as traitor and said something. They all rose and left the dining room. Aaron wished him luck. He'd need it.

He gave it another fifteen minutes then left by a side entrance.

Back in the van he changed clothes then pulled out the smart phone and dialed Marta to tell her he was on his way. It was only eleven.

She loved him. She'd said so. He couldn't wait to see her again.

A man's voice answered. "Aaron, brother! I've been waiting for your call."


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

Two – he said his name was Henry Black – put away the smart phone. "Well, we'd better get ready to party, huh, Doc?"

Hands tied to a pipe that came out of the kill room's cement floor, Marta just looked at him. Black had turned on most of the lights in the slaughterhouse. Overhead a framework of open girders supported chains for hanging carcasses while they bled out. A door on the north wall stood open to the night. A door on the south wall led to more rooms where the process of turning animals into meat continued when the slaughterhouse was in operation.

Two … Black … had been the most difficult of the Outcome participants for Marta to work with. Not physically. An over-all medium - height, weight, brown hair, blue eyes - he was midway between Aaron's lean, cat-like wiriness and Six's bulky muscles. But whenever Black had been scheduled for an in-depth at the red lab, Marta had made sure Foite kept an eye on them via the lab cams. Given Foite's murderous betrayal, it seemed pointless in retrospect but at the time it had made her feel more secure.

Whenever Aaron had reported into the red lab, he had been breezy, even flirty in their conversations. She remembered telling him to count backward from one hundred and he'd done so … in Russian, she was sure to impress her. She'd thought it cute at the time. He'd been her favorite of the nine participants, although she'd never tell him so because they'd all been her patients, her responsibility and she'd let them down by ignoring that they'd been turned into killers, murderers. Aaron had tried to tell her what was happening. She hadn't wanted to listen. She'd been scared of him, of the truth.

When Black was in the red lab he had touched her in some kind of controlling way at every opportunity. Holding her wrist when she stuck him with a needle, putting a hand on her shoulder when she leaned over to inspect a leg wound. Just little touches, but they had been hard and steady and something had always felt off about them. And his hungry eyes had followed her as she moved around the lab.

After Two's checkups were finished, she always wrote it off to nerves. All of the Outcome participants, even the woman Four, could be physically unnerving, moving just a little too quick, staring just a little too hard. Any reasonable person was uneasy around them. The red lab had made them seem safer, chained somehow. When Aaron had first appeared in her Maryland home, all she could think was "he's out of his cage."

Tonight Black had come here to kill them both, she was sure of it. On the phone he'd just told Aaron to come to the slaughterhouse and they'd play. Aaron had demanded to speak to Marta. She'd told him to run, that Black was Outcome Two and that she was dead already.

Black had thought that funny. He'd told Aaron, "Colonel Byer says you'll do anything to get the doc back. But she's mine now, Aaron. You let her get away. You want her back? How about a game? What do you think? Winner take all? It's Nevada after all." He kissed Marta on the forehead. "Byer can't find us. I took out my cute little locator chip. So it'll be just you and me. Let's find out who the doc really wants. Remember visiting her at the lab? She was hot, wasn't she? And she smelled so good. I wanted her, now I've got her. Come on, Cross. Come and get her."

At the Moon Bunny Ranch, Black had started off telling Marta that he wanted her help getting blue meds. When she'd hesitated, he'd let her see the large pistol he wore under his jacket. Deputy Corny had stood waiting to back him up. Black's handlers had undoubtedly given him enough valid credentials to convince God he was a good guy, let alone a sheriff's deputy. The threat to Auntie Amanda, the other prostitutes and the johns had been unspoken but obvious. "Make trouble and I'll start shooting. I don't care who I hit. Do you?" She should have gone into the hidey like Auntie had suggested, but Black had been one of her patients, just like Aaron. She had a responsibility to him too, or so she thought. It had been a bad choice.

Now Deputy Corny was sitting in his cruiser in the slaughterhouse parking lot, a bullet through his head. Marta was helpless, and Aaron was heading for a death trap.


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12

Aaron left the Moon Bunny van at the access road and jogged toward the slaughterhouse on foot, moving easily in the dark, one of the Desert Eagles and an extra clip weighing down one pocket of his cargo pants, Randy's handy jack knife and a small flashlight in the other. If Black was enhanced, Aaron didn't have a hope in H*ll of sneaking up on him. He didn't have a plan so much as a goal – to get Marta out of this alive.

He reached the sheriff's cruiser, saw the dead deputy. Should he call in a request for backup? The deputy's shoulder radio was missing. Black probably had it.

He could almost sympathize with Black's desire for a match. In Manila he'd fought another agent, maybe an Outcome participant, although Marta hadn't recognized him. Without her help he would have lost. That had pricked him just a little, that even with enhancements he needed help. It made him wonder if he was still deficient. Did heroes need help? They never did in the movies. Aaron shook his head to clear it. That was Kenny thinking. He was Aaron Cross. There were no heroes. He killed and stole and lied and cheated. Winning was everything. He was more monster than hero. He was the Beast.

There were only three practical entrances to the slaughterhouse, the employee locker room for the people, the kill room gate for cattle and the loading dock for the boxed meat. Tonight all but the kill room were locked down tight. The kill room gate was wide open, bright light illuminating a tunnel of night and creating a deep shadow everywhere else.

When he was staying at the Ranch, at night when Marta was sleeping and Auntie Amanda and her girls were busy with clients, he'd come to the slaughterhouse, curious as to why it had closed down. It had been there killing cows and stinking up the countryside his whole life and he'd never been inside. Like he'd told that agent in Alaska, he was wired to be curious. Presented with a mystery, he always looked for answers.

As it turned out, Auntie Amanda told him the slaughterhouse was sold as a package to an east coast company looking to expand into the mountain states. Out in the feedlot portion of the operation, the pens were empty, the heavy equipment that kept the feed grain flowing and the sh*t shoveled parked under the row of loafing sheds. Inside the main building, all the equipment, the knives, chain and band saws and splitting mauls were still in place or hanging on the walls. The bolt gun used on the kill floor had been still in its cradle, loaded and ready to go. The floors had been hosed down and scrubbed clean, but the place still smelled vaguely of blood and raw meat. It was very cold inside, especially for a warehouse in Nevada.

After Aaron had gone back to find and bury Whirligig's saddle and bridle, he'd gone on to the slaughterhouse and spent a few hours setting up mock battles, plotting scenarios and in general practicing the art of war. Kenny had played video games. Aaron played war games. The slaughterhouse appealed to his sense of drama. Black probably chose it for some of the same reasons and he'd been here a while. Aaron wondered what traps Black had set, remembering the ones he'd considered earlier.

It didn't take long to find Black and Marta. They were in the kill room. "On your feet," he was telling her. "Time to get moving. Lover boy has arrived." They were moving up the processing line, toward the cutting and wrapping rooms. Peripherally, Aaron registered that the bolt rifle was no longer in the kill cradle. During his war games, he'd imagined a scenario where he'd rigged the rifle to fire remotely with a trip wire. Black could have moved it anywhere. He rolled his pant legs up to his knees. Maybe he'd feel it before it killed him.

"How did you find us?" he shouted as he ran from shadow to shadow, turning on equipment, setting in motion the overhead chain drives that moved carcasses from room to room. Without anything to weigh the hooks down, they banged and rattled. Climbing a ladder cemented into the wall, Aaron jumped from rafter to rafter, easily avoiding the moving hooks as he paralleled the path of the drive. He was making quite a bit of noise, but the chains were covering it, and holding onto Marta, Black couldn't move fast enough to chase him.

Marta said all the Outcome agents were different. Apparently Black wasn't as aggressive as Aaron. In his place, Aaron would have sacrificed safety for mobility, would have tried to catch him and bring him down. Aaron was all about the chase.

Maybe Black was afraid of heights. Maybe he was afraid of Aaron. Maybe he'd run out of blue meds and had lost all of his smarts.

Black raised his voice and answered, "Twitter. I told Byer to do a meta-analysis of every person you ever met, up to three degrees of separation. You really should have killed Master Sergeant Collins and his wife. She tweeted about you in the hospital, talked about a creepy Russian they met in Hong Kong right before the Sarge broke his legs. After that it was easy. I've been checking the most likely locales all week." Aaron could hear him moving away.

"So it's Byer after us. I wondered."

"Oh yeah," Black laughed. "Byer wants us all dead. He thinks I've bought his bullsh*t about saving the world, but I know what he really wants. So either I kill you and the doc or he will. Your turn to share … what's the doc like in bed? Is she a screamer?"

It was good to keep Black talking. When he was talking, he wasn't shooting. "I wouldn't know. I'm just a private first class. She's a doctor. She could have a general if she wanted."

Black laughed. "Bullsh*t. I can smell you all over her. She's turned on just listening to you. Did you know that? She wants you bad. You should come down and f**k her."

"Can't right now. Busy. Why don't you do her for me?"

"Oh, she didn't like that, brother. You should see the expression on her face. I do believe she hates us." Now Aaron could see Marta and she did look unhappy. Black held her tightly from the back. Aaron couldn't get close enough to risk a pistol shot when they were so close together. Even enhanced, it wasn't easy to hit anything with a pistol further than 10 feet away, and if Black was like him, he could keep moving even when he was almost dead. It took several well-placed shots to bring Aaron down, or a single very luck one to his head or heart. In training he'd learned how to avoid exposing his weak points.

He didn't want to shoot Black anyway. He wanted to cut him into little pieces for what he was doing to his Marta.

He had to get them apart. Black had scoped him, but had only a pistol. He fired but the shots went wild. Running along one of the rafters, Aaron fired at the light fixtures. Sparks showered down. The lights went out throughout the building. The chain drives stopped.

For sanitation control, the slaughterhouse had no windows. Black and Marta disappeared into a blackness so intense it seemed liquid. In training Aaron had done blindfold combat exercises, working by sound and completely in the dark. Black had probably gone through that training too. But it wouldn't stay dark for long. Like any well-managed industrial building, the slaughterhouse had a battery lighting system that should kick in automatically. He had to move fast. Climbing down to the cutting room floor, he did a quick search by touch of the wall he'd seen three days ago and still remembered like a photograph in his mind. Somehow he managed not to cut himself. Then he was back up again. From his location in the room where carcasses cooled down, Black fired another three bullets. They were closer this time, pinging and flashing off an upright to Aaron's left.

"Now that was a dirty trick," Black said. "But you know this isn't going to make any difference." A double set of footsteps moved away, one heavy and sure, the other dragging.

Aaron ran after them along the rafters, in his left hand one of the broad-bladed splitting maul axes used to break up carcasses, a sheathed knife in his belt. There are a lot of knives in a slaughterhouse.

The lights would be back on any second.

Marta moaned. Black snarled, "Shut up, b*tch," followed by a smack. Aaron twitched in reaction, it felt almost like he'd been hit himself.

They were still moving. Aaron had a feeling Black was trying to lead him to a trap. Whispers of sound were magnified in the dark, solid black even to enhanced eyes, but always the two heartbeats, the two sets of footsteps together. They were almost directly beneath him.

Still no backup lights. He was beginning to wonder if he'd fried the entire electrical system, including the backup.

Black still held onto Marta as a shield, their sounds were so close together. Aaron wouldn't attack him while he did, but she also made it harder for Black to locate Aaron, adding a masking layer of sound to sort out. That first night after he'd rescued Marta from the old house in Maryland, she'd asked him about the watch and her timed pistol shot. He'd explained about shooting blind with enhanced hearing. Maybe she understood that her noise helped him now or maybe she was just in pain because she moaned and gasped and dragged her feet non-stop.

They'd reached the employee locker room door. A heavy smack and a thump. Below him Black had knocked Marta down, maybe even pistol-whipped her and she lay dying. Aaron made himself be cold. It had not sounded like metal against bone.

And then the emergency lights finally, finally kicked in. Dim lamps one per wall came on, pointed up toward the ceiling. Black was bent over the locker room door, probably trying to pick the lock. Marta lay on the floor close by.

Aaron seized his moment. He jumped straight down to the cement floor below, the axe held out before him, aimed at Black's head. The razor sharp axe cut down through Black's skull, neck, body and eventually out between his legs, propelled by the momentum of the jump, cutting through flesh, bone and clothing with equal ease. Black had something in his hand, a slender boning knife that he must have been using to work on the lock. Held low, the knife point hit the Desert Eagle in Aaron's pants pocket and snapped off close to the hilt. The broken end skidded across the tough jean fabric, ripping a hole and tearing a gouge in his leg.

Blood fountained out of Black's body as the two halves fell apart. It coated the walls, the floor, Marta and Aaron. He could taste it in his mouth, he breathed it in. It dripped off the tip of his nose. It was a godawful mess. And then Black was down on the ground, making his final involuntary muscle twitches.

Aaron turned away and bent over Marta. As far he could tell, she had a nasty cut on her cheek and scratches on her bare arms but seemed otherwise okay. It was hard to be sure with all the blood.


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 13

Marta came to in a warm shower, the water cascading over her head. Something, someone was holding her upright on her feet and getting equally soaked along with her. There was diffuse, dim light. She was fully clothed, included her athletic shoes. The side of her face ached horribly. She tasted blood in her mouth. She could smell it in her nose. "Hey there, you," Aaron's voice said. "Our first shower together." Some shower. He too had his clothes on. Not sexy.

She murmured something, she wasn't even sure herself what she said. Memory came back - Black, the slaughterhouse, Aaron. She jerked up. "Watch out!"

"No, no, Black's dead." They hugged for a bit, the water cascading over them. It was nice. It felt safe, in spite of her spinning head. "I have to do some clean up. Are you going to be okay by yourself?"

Probably not, but she tried to nod agreement. It hurt a lot. She put her hand to the wall. She felt dizzy. Her stomach heaved but nothing came up. "Think so. Where are we?"

"Still at the slaughterhouse, we're in the employee shower room." He hugged her some more. "Listen. I kinda made a mess of taking out Black. Scrub yourself clean. I have to go do some clean up. I'll be back."

Leave it to Aaron to reduce a life and death struggle to "I made a mess."

It took him a couple of hours to take care of it all. He reset the circuit breakers first so Marta could have all the hot water she wanted, but without a ladder and spare bulbs there was nothing he could do about the smashed lamps.

He used a backhoe to bury Black and the deputy deep in the feed lot, stripping both bodies of anything that would identify them. Black wore a med tin around his neck full of greens and blues, just like the one he'd worn himself for so long. Black really had been a brother of sorts. He also had a thousand dollars in cash, charge cards and several types of government id. Aaron took it all, even the meds.

The deputy's badge and id said his name was Bert Cornwallis. Surely only God could arrange a coincidence like that. His old Berwin nemesis, the bastard who ... Cocking back a fist, Aaron smashed it into the deputy's face with all his strength. Bones broke and crunched. Blood leaked. Another mess to clean up. J*sus, he had to get control of himself. Bert was already dead and there was still a lot to do.

Aaron parked the backhoe on top of the grave. He hosed down the cutting room where Black had died as well as the kill room for good measure, found the trap Black had set up with the kill rifle close to the employee locker room, cleared it, reloaded and recharged the rifle and put it back in its cradle. He cleaned the axe he'd used to kill Black and put it back on the wall. He decided to burn the cruiser out in the desert and drove it a few miles west toward the foothills, staying off road and running dark. Rolling it over a low bluff, he shot the gas tank just to be sure and tossed a lighter from his back pack into the mess that used to be an engine. It burned nicely.

The sun was coming up as he jogged back into the slaughterhouse parking lot. Marta was still in the shower room. She'd stripped off her wet clothes, dried herself with paper towels and lain down on a pile of coats and jackets she'd taken off the wall. Wearing only an oversized t-shirt, she was fast asleep. He checked her breathing, felt her pulse. She moaned and stirred, shivered a little. Yes, he was pretty sure she was asleep, not concussed.

He carried her and her clothes out to the Moon Bunny van, and laid her in the back. Going back he finished up the last of the cleaning, wiping off fingerprints as he went, relocked the slaughterhouse doors and gates the best he could and returned to the van.

He took the Desert Eagle out of his pocket. It was wet. He'd forgotten to take it off when he'd carried Marta into the shower. He swapped it for the other Eagle he'd left in his backpack. His clothes had mostly dried out. Even on a cool night, the desert air sucked away moisture.

Black said he'd gone off the grid and Byer couldn't track him, but they should leave the Ranch. On the other hand, he couldn't steal the van. Auntie Amanda would report it and him missing. Maybe she would sell it to him.


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter 14

Amanda Cross had known for some time that the Army had profoundly changed Kenny Kitsom. He'd been a sweet little boy and a kind young man, even if he did have to work harder learning things than most people. But in the Army he'd become something different, especially after that misunderstanding about him being dead. This new Kenny seemed just as sweet, but it was an act. You didn't f**k strangers for a living without gaining an in-depth feeling for what was true and what was fake.

Whatever he was, he still loved his Auntie. Standing in the doorway to the Mexican guest room, watching him hold Marta's hand as she lay on the king sized bed, she could tell he loved her too. Good on him. It was about time he found himself a woman.

But this one was sure a lot of trouble. A few hours ago at the ungodly hour of 6 a.m., he'd carried Marta in the front door for the second time in less than a week. And instead of the jeans and jacket she'd been wearing when she left yesterday with that strange man and Deputy Corny, she was wearing only a big old t-shirt. Yesterday she'd been real upset about leaving but said she had to. "Tell Kenny that I love him. Tell him to be good." Amanda had been dreading having to tell Kenny about it when he got back, but Marta just wouldn't stay no matter what Amanda said.

The lounge and most of the rooms had been empty and all the girls asleep when Kenny barreled through their swinging saloon doors. The regular doors were always open at that hour to let in some fresh air. Kenny said, "She won't wake up. I think she's got a concussion. She won't wake up." His clothing and face was a mess of dirt and smudges. He had a long tear in this pants and blood down his leg. There was something real heavy in his pocket and he was wearing that backpack he always had on him. At least that was what Lorraine said. She'd been doing her morning exercises, and woke Amanda up. They put Marta and Kenny in a clean guest room. The Mexican was ready since the Doc hadn't been out for a week.

Lorraine, God bless her, checked Marta's pulse and eyes and stuff. "I used to be a nurse until I started making better money f**king. I don't think she's concussed. Looks more like an infection or a flu or something. She's got a bad temperature and she's having trouble breathing. Amanda, you got all that first aid stuff I told you to get?"

Being way out in the country hosting a bunch of men who … ah, exercised more than they usually did and sometimes got carried away with their fun, Amanda kept a really well stocked first aid station, all the stuff the law required for brothels and some extra stuff, just in case. And having a former nurse like Lorraine working for her had been a Godsend.

Now Marta was breathing easier. They'd pumped her full of aspirin and packed an ice bag on her head trying to get the fever down. Kenny gave her water when he could get her awake enough to swallow. Lorraine showed him how to stroke her throat to encourage it to get down.

Lorraine had also bandaged the long nasty gash in Kenny's leg, after he – Kenny himself, mind you – stitched it closed with a sterilized needle and catgut from the kit. No painkillers and he didn't even grimace. Lorraine had watched him in awe. "You've done this before, haven't you?"

He'd nodded. "Oh yeah, more than once." He showed her a long healed gash on his left leg and a shorter one on his right. Lorraine said the long one was probably a bullet wound. He hadn't put his trousers back on, just wore his boxers. (Kenny had never really had a lot of modesty. Living in a dorm probably took it out of him and Lord knows the brothel hadn't exactly helped.) Out of his discarded pants he took the biggest automatic pistol Amanda had ever seen and some other stuff, dumping all of it in his backpack. She was grateful for that. They had Wild West revolvers bolted to the walls in several guest rooms, but this was no antique. It looked efficient and deadly. So did Kenny handling it. This was one of the ways she knew Kenny had changed.

He asked her to burn his pants in the trash bin outside and sat down and began to tend to cuts on Marta's face and arms. She had a cut and a nasty bruise close to her hairline and long scratches on her arms. He used butterfly closures and a heavy coating of spray-on bandage to protect the wounds.

"Want me to call Doc Winters for her?" Amanda asked when she came back from the trash bin job. His worry was something awful to behold. Winters was the Ranch's on-call and a good client too. He came out for a visit at least once a week. And he did all the girls' annual health board certificates. Probably a conflict of interest, but nobody was complaining, not yet anyway. Probably 'cause he did stuff for the Sheriff too, some of it under the table, like making sure the deputies' pee tests checked out okay even when they didn't. Out here where marijuana grew wild in the river beds, there were sometimes misunderstandings about stuff like that.

Winters was a GP, not a bad doctor, just liked his p*ssy hot and spicy. Everybody knew what he liked, even the Sheriff, and what he liked was putting on one of the Ranch's Mexican wrestler costumes and playing in here in this very room with Tawny and Fawny. He always wanted both of them together, sometimes even more. They all had to wear black wigs though, so they looked Mexican. Wigs, costume, sex toys, all of it was in the big bureau against the wall.

Kenny looked grim. "Auntie, I'm not going to lie to you. Some serious stuff happened last night. Marta and me, we didn't do it, no matter what they say, but they might come looking for us." He looked at Marta lying on the bed, his anguish plain as day. "We really should leave here. If they come for us, I can't protect everyone."

"Nonsense. If I can't take care of my baby boy, who can I take care of?" Years ago when Kenny had first wandered in, Amanda had asked around about adopting him. Turns out prostitutes were considered unfit mothers. That didn't change how she felt. "Okay, if you've gotta hide, I have an idea."


	15. Chapter 15

Author's note: I was sick over the weekend and will be gone on a trip most of this week. Getting behind, so no more chapters this week. Sorry. Tune back in next week. Thanks for your reviews and encouragement. Keeps me writing

Chapter 15

Aaron put on the wrestler tights because Auntie had insisted, but he left the mask on the nightstand. He'd seen skinny old Doc Winters in this outfit a few times, messing around with the girls, chasing them around and shouting in garbled Spanish.

Aaron had put away the pistol in his backpack because it had freaked Lorraine and Auntie, but he got it out again and held it as though in prayer. Guns were Aaron's crucifix and rosary. They comforted him in dark troubled times.

Earlier Marta had been in and out of consciousness, never really awake, but sometimes hallucinating while he held her. She seemed to think they were back in Hong Kong. She said, "You've got to get out. I'll never keep up. I'm so weak. You should just kill me now."

She smelled hot and dry, the sweetness of her femininity burning up. It reminded him of the viral enhancement fevers he'd endured. Flesh on fire.

But the restlessness and hallucinations had stopped and she lay so still. Over the last few days they'd talked only a few minutes. He had no idea what was wrong with her. She hadn't been hurt that badly at the slaughterhouse. He couldn't take her to a doctor or hospital. They'd report her and she'd be dead within hours. Byer would make sure of that.

He should never have left her alone at the Moon Bunny Ranch. Black had come for her and he hadn't been here to protect her. Aaron had made a big mistake. He had taken her somewhere they could be traced and he had left her.

If Marta didn't live through this … Aaron pressed the cool gun barrel along his forehead. He'd find Byer. Byer lived close to Washington DC, he'd let that bit of info slip way back in Aaron's earliest training days. Aaron could find him with that much information. He'd found Marta's Maryland house with less, just her name, the red lab location, a practical commuting distance and a woodsy scent that had followed her around during his last three visits. He figured she'd recently moved and had checked property transfer records online.

Byer would pay, Byer and his whole family if he had one. He'd show Byer how to eat sin in great big mouthfuls. See how easy it went down.

Marta had been unconscious for four hours now, six if he counted the time he left her alone at the slaughterhouse while he cleaned up. He shouldn't have done that either. He was never going to leave her alone again. Anywhere, at anytime.

But he knew that for Marta just living might not be enough. Her funk in Hong Kong had come from losing her science, her career in virology. She'd lost her direction. Without her science she'd never really be alive again. Never be the strong, healthy woman he'd admired in the red lab, so in control, so powerful. No, he had to try to do more for her. If he could, if she lived.

Hearing a light knock at the bedroom door he slipped the pistol under the blanket. It was Lorraine. She had a fresh icepack, and after they'd swapped that out, she used a forehead thermometer to take Marta's temperature. He must be letting his anxiety show, because Lorraine squeezed his shoulder and said, "Don't worry so much, baby. I think she's getting a little better. Temp's down a degree. Just keep praying. God listens when good boys like you pray." She sat down on the bed next to him. Patted his arm. Paused. "Sometime you're going have to tell me where you learned to sew up a wound like that."

"Army made me take a lot of classes. You know, to make me smart. They said I had lots to learn." That was actually the truth, except that he'd had one-on-one trainers who turned his body into a weapon and each lesson had taken him at most an hour to master. That is, except flight training because his teacher, a former astronaut, made sure he could fly anything built anywhere on the planet, past and present, including the space shuttle.

He looked up. Lorraine had left, unnoticed. Auntie was probably in the kitchen fixing lunch. She'd spent the morning making sure all the girls knew the score and putting anything that might betray him in the hidey.

It's too bad he and Marta couldn't just crawl in the hidey too, but it had never been designed as a safe room, but a stash for booze and drugs. He sighed and picked up Marta's hand again. It really did feel cooler. He felt her forehead and her cheek, pulled back an eyelid. The pupil contracted. He leaned over and whispered in her ear, "Marta. Marta, can you hear me?"

Her head turned in his direction, her eyes opened. "Wow," she husked, coughed. She swallowed, moistened her lips, tried again. "Did you get the number on that bus?" It was a thread of sound.

Something was wrong with Aaron's eyes. There was water leaking out of them. He sniffled and to cover his confusion, he picked up the water bottle from the nightstand and helped her drink.

"How long?" she whispered.

"Not long, six, seven hours. You should rest."

"I'm hungry." She took a deep breath, stretched a tiny bit, flexed and tried to sit up, failed. "Not yet, I guess. Why in the world are you wearing tights? You look ridiculous."


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter 16

Marta felt hungry enough to eat the proverbial horse, but all Aaron brought her was chicken broth. After he fed that to her spoon by careful spoon, and she got it down and kept it there, he relented and brought her a can of Ensure that Auntie Amanda found in the kitchen. He still wouldn't let her get up, even though she felt better by the moment. He was right. She really didn't have the strength for it yet. He did, however, take the ice bag back to the kitchen when she complained it was giving her a chill.

The tights turned out to be part of Auntie's plan if the local sheriff did a bed check. "He's lost a deputy and a feebie and he's going to come looking for them," Aaron said. Gently he stroked her cheek, rubbed a sore spot. He frowned at it, rubbed again harder. Shook his head. "Tomorrow if you're feeling better, we should leave."

"And leave Auntie to deal with the fallout? What happens when the sheriff finds out you're not this Doctor Winters?" She felt strong, alive. Everything seemed brighter than yesterday, smells stronger, tastes sharper. If she'd been interviewing herself at the lab, she would have concluded she was on drugs.

"Oh she's got the doc on a short leash. He'll do anything she wants or she'll cut him off." He snickered. "Maybe literally. I wouldn't put it past her."

"Let's get going then. The sooner the better." Once again she tried to sit up.

"Hey, stop that," Aaron said. He lay down, wrapped an arm around her and pulled her close. She felt a soft kiss on her hair. "I thought I was going to lose you," he whispered, so quiet an ant sneeze would have been loud by comparison. A little louder he added, "Stay down and rest." He smelled so good, a musky male scent that she could almost taste. Why hadn't she ever noticed that before? God, she felt good.

She lay quietly for a while but her brain was spinning top speed, trying to grasp the pathogenesis of what had just happened to her. Aaron said she'd been coated in Black's blood, "And some of mine too, I guess."

That, of course, led to thoughts of the enhancement viruses. That shouldn't have infected her. To avoid this very issue the enhancement virus had been bred to do its work and then be cleaned out by the host body. Even if it had infected her, it should have killed her and not just knocked her out for a few hours. She'd read Dan Hillcott's study of the initial green viral lock nine months ago, and he'd said, "Subjects infected at peak physical condition to ensure survival." Aaron had also survived his blue viral lock, but she was a long way from his physical perfection, a perfection that was lying right next to her, its perfect arm wrapped around her, the perfect mouth just inches away … her mind was getting away from her.

No, it couldn't be the enhancement virus. Post fever delirium probably affected her perception, accentuating the physical attraction she'd always felt to Aaron's whipcord body.

"Do you hear that?" he asked, rising up on an elbow.

She did. Men's voices down the hall, doors slamming, feminine voices raised in indignation. Suddenly Tawny and Fawny burst through their door, both of the redheads wearing tiny scraps of black fabric pretending to be a bra and panties. One of the girls (Marta had given up trying to tell them apart) explained breathlessly, "Sheriff's here." She grabbed what looked like a silk sock from the night table and pulled it over Aaron's head. It sort of looked like a ski mask trimmed in gold embroidery. Like most things, it made Aaron look more dangerous, but it completely hid his features.

The other girl pulled stuff out of the bureau drawers and tossed it on the bed. Putting on a black wig, she tossed two more toward her soul sister. In another minute, Marta was wearing a wig too, her sweaty t-shirt was off and she was lying naked under Aaron, who in turn was topped by the two working girls doing what working girls do best. His tights were peeled down. The working girls had completely stripped.

It would have been sexy if it hadn't been so confusing. If Aaron hadn't been so tense. Gone was the quiet, perfect body from a moment before. He'd changed into the tiger again, his attention completely focused on the noises in the hall, the girls climbing on him barely acknowledged.

_Auntie Amanda: "You're scaring away my customers."_

Above Marta, a heavy pile of bodies squirmed and tried to get comfortable without crushing Marta in the process. Aaron's hand stroked her face reassuringly. "Don't move anymore than you have to." He smiled. "Take a nap."

His left hand slipped under the blanket. She saw that it now held a gun.

"Yeah, right," she gasped. "Do you know what you're doing to me?" Aaron's chest was pushing down on hers a little too much and she was having trouble breathing. She was doing pretty good considering she'd been burning up with fever less than hour earlier, but she wasn't sure how long she could keep it up.

But he felt good. So good. He asked, "Will we have to get married?"

He shifted his weight and Marta sighed in relief. That was better. Maybe she could do it after all.

One of the girls turned on something that thrummed. When the pitch of the thrumming changed, Aaron's mouth flew open, his eyes went wide. "Oh God," he grunted and pushed his thighs against Marta's. She spread her legs to hold his weight better. It certainly added to their masquerade as Doc Winters and his fun fiesta. He looked back at her again and grimaced.

"Are you okay?" She asked.

He shook his head. Panted. Shook his head again.

_In the hall, male voice: "Sorry, Amanda, but this a dangerous man. We don't want anyone hurt. We think he's been hiding at Quality Pack. We just need to make sure he didn't sneak in here." They were closer, right outside the door._

Aaron groaned and raised up on his elbows. One of the girls placed herself so that her face was over Marta's. "Just pretend you're kissing me," she whispered. Marta did her best not to cough or gasp. The girl still on top re-positioned herself so she was between Aaron and the door.

Bare breasts and other parts were everywhere. Marta would never be able to look these girls in the face again. Aaron's muscles were knotted, one hand held the gun, his eyes and mouth pinched with discomfort.

_Auntie Amanda: "I told you it's just Doc and those two tourists you just chased out. It's Wednesday lunch, for Pete's sake."_

_The door knob rattled, male voice: "Doc's here? Where's his car?"_

The door started to creak open.

_Auntie Amanda: "Yeah, Doc's right in there, Sheriff, and this ain't gonna make him happy."_

Natural light flooded the room. Marta assumed that the door had fully open.

The top girl squealed and wrapped herself tightly around Aaron. The other girl pretended not to notice and kept making kissing noises and massaging Marta wherever she could reach. Aaron was panting and moving. Marta decided it was a good time to add what resources she had available and moaned and wriggled theatrically. Pushing himself up, Aaron looked over his shoulder and growled in an old man's voice, "I'm busy, for crap's sake, Jim." Marta was genuinely surprised he could talk, let alone use a voice other than his own.

But they must have been convincing. Male voice: "Sorry, sorry, Doc."

The door slammed close. Everyone on the bed maintained position. Marta stopped moving and sighed in relief. That was about as much as she could manage. Aaron shifted his weight back more and his gun hand lifted a little. She could tell he was ready to shoot if necessary.

_Male voice out in the hall: "Uh yeah, what was I saying? Oh yeah, the doc's car."_

_Auntie Amanda: "I picked him up. His car wouldn't start."_

The voices were moving away.

The girl whose face covered Marta's pulled back. She giggled happily, "Wow, I guess we fooled them."

Aaron sort of curled his body forward. "Take it out, Tawny," he snarled, looking over his shoulder at the girl behind him.

"Oh, sorry, Kenny. It's what the doc always wants. Are you okay?"

Aaron nodded. "I'm fine. Just get it out." The thrumming, which had been going non-stop, finally ended and Aaron groaned, pulled himself off of Marta and lay down next to her. She rolled to face him. Hey, she was getting stronger. Before this theatrical production began, she could barely lift her head.

Aaron's eyes were closed, his breathing ragged. He did not look like he'd enjoyed any of what had just happened. She pulled off the mask and kissed him on the forehead. He didn't respond. It occurred to her that Bert Cornwallis might have given Kenny Kitsom more than a black eye all those years ago. Enhancement gave Aaron spectacular self-control, but she was willing to bet that's all it was - control. She decided it was a good time to divert him with something, anything. Even an argument. "Let's get out of here, Aaron, before we get these girls in more trouble. Do I still have any clothes?" It didn't quite do the trick. He looked at her with troubled eyes.

One of the girls said as she slipped back into her scraps of clothing, "I'm sure we can find you something to wear. That was so exciting! Just like real secret agents."

Perfect, the spell of hurt was broken. Aaron rolled his eyes. "Yeah, just like secret agents." He stood up and began to gather up the sex toys scattered all over the bed.

"You're going to sleep now," Aaron ordered. He'd just carried Marta from the toilet back to the bed. She didn't know whether to be embarrassed or grateful for the help. Pride warred with necessity. Annoyance with gratitude.

"Sit with me a moment," she said. Obedient, he sat next to her on the edge of the bed, a question on his face. Nothing remained of the wounded man from an hour ago. He was steel again, shiny hard, beauty without warmth. So far away, so close. The fine planes of his face and large eyes not revealing anything beyond a polite, wary interest in what she might have to say.

She was blanking. How do you talk to a grown man about his childhood terror, let him know that you care how he feels without triggering the denials he's practiced to a fine art for thirty years?

There was no one here but them. They weren't onstage. They didn't have a sheriff to hide from. They weren't in the grip of fear or anger or lust. He had stepped back from her like he always did when he wasn't acting out a role. Sometimes he did it literally, this time it was just a figure of speech. She could reach out and touch him all she wanted but he wasn't going to be the warm gentle man of a few hours ago when she'd been so sick.

She wasn't sure which of her negatives kept him at arm's length –her b*tching about the drug deals, the violence and the stealing; their shared red lab history as researcher and test subject; her stubborn blindness to how he and the other Outcome agents had been turned into killers, no more valued than highly trained dogs. Something kept him away from her.

Or was it just him that was holding back? Wearing a t-shirt and jeans, he looked so ordinary, so "friendly neighbor that will fix the sink." Harmless, but he wasn't. Outcome had transformed him into a super human killer. She had transformed him. What he was, she had made. She was responsible. She had created the efficient coldness in his heart. She had created the strength that carried her around like she weighed almost nothing. She couldn't be afraid of him for being what he was made to be, couldn't be hurt because he was obeying his chemical programming.

She gently pulled him down and began kissing him thoroughly and deeply until she couldn't breathe and her body started curling toward him. "You are the sexiest man alive," she whispered in his ear. That's all she could think of to offer him, how much he attracted her. "Even in wrestler tights."

He laughed and pushed her away. "I'm not going to f**k you." But he looked more relaxed, less wary.

"Just saying." She let her hands slip over his body. "Too bad."

"Go to sleep." He smoothed her hair.

She sighed and snuggled down. She was tired. With her hand in his she fell asleep.


	17. Chapter 17

Author's note: Sorry, I forgot I posted this chapter and continued to make revisions. Nothing major, I think, but I thought I should re-post the updated version just in case. Again, my apologies. loneyb

Chapter 17

The old Ranchero blew through dry Nevada desert, a gorgeous grand old lady in an empty landscape. Overhead an eternity of blue sky and a cool morning sun watched, indifferent the minor issues such as life and death and the fate of nations.

It felt like a turning point of some kind to Aaron. Behind him were two months of terror mixed with the exquisite pleasure of Doctor Marta Shearing's daily company. Ahead was what? More terror and more Marta? No, if the last two days had shown him anything, it was that he couldn't keep dragging her through this hell. At the first opportunity he had to find a place for her to be safe.

As he drove, Aaron continued to review the situation awaiting in Reno - Uncle Joachim, the cached drugs, and their possible strategies. Marta had been distracted, not really paying attention to Aaron's speculations. Instead she squinted at road signs as soon as they appeared on the horizon and turned to look behind them every few minutes. "Are you ready for this?" he asked. He could always do the meet with Joachim on his own and leave Marta at the gaming tables or in a hotel room. He liked that idea. Yeah, maybe he should.

She'd never leave his side. Even with a gun in her hand she wouldn't feel safe without him, especially after Black and the confrontation at Quality Pack. She was putting on a good show, but she had to be scared.

"Oh yeah," Marta said. "Never felt better." He didn't believe it, but she walked and moved just fine, with no signs of strain. She seemed normal .He wanted her strong and healthy so badly, it might be clouding his judgment. They'd take it one stage at a time.

She had been so sweet to him last night. So gentle. She'd been reaching out, trying to comfort him. That damned pervert Winters. He should never have agreed to Auntie's plan. It had put Marta in a really bad situation when she was almost completely helpless. Afterwards instead of complaining, collapsing in hysterics or turning her back on him in disgust and anger, she'd worried about him and what had happened to him years ago. That was so Marta, strong, insightful and always looking out for someone else.

Today was different. If they were very, very lucky, they'd have a drug deal that would put them in enough money to move on Sterisyn and Ric Byer. As he'd outlined the plan over bacon and eggs, Marta had spouted the usual naive BS about stealing and drugs. But half-heartedly. She wanted this over too.

He glanced sideways at her. Squinting down the road, she seemed totally preoccupied. She wore a strapless purple dress held up by elastic and wishful thinking and silvery spike heels that made her taller than him and forced her to walk with a delicious sway and flick of the hips. A fluffy jacket hid the holster and gun they'd bought for her at the Sparks Walmart. A braided white wig donated by Lorraine hid much of her face. Like the blonde dye job it didn't suit her, but gift horses, you know. Tawny and Fawny had spent an hour on her makeup. She didn't look like herself, which was the whole point, of course, when they were returning to the world of CCTV. But Marta hated dressing to play a part.

Actually, she hated everything about being on the run. He sometimes wondered if she regretted surviving the take down at the Sterisyn red lab. She'd most of her friends and inherited a life that must be pure hell for an egghead research scientist. He'd asked her in Maryland if she wanted to live. He wondered if she'd still stay yes.

He'd given Lorraine all of Black's credit cards with careful instructions on how to use 'em and lose 'em. She and her husband were leaving today on a driving vacation all up and down the West coast. That should keep Ric Byer's geeks busy. You do what you can to muddy the waters.

Under Aaron's suit coat, the freshly cleaned and oiled Desert Eagle hung in a new concealed-carry sling. He was surprised how much he'd come to rely on it. Usually weapons passed through his hands like tableware, used for a short time then passed on.

Thank God Nevada had no waiting period for hand guns, it had made it easy to get something for Marta's protection at Walmart, otherwise it would have meant stealing and yet another delay. Stealing annoyed Marta.

It annoyed him too, for that matter. Aaron hadn't slept for four days now and he was tired. In theory he could go indefinitely, but at three days he started losing his edge. He'd spent last night making new IDs and concealed carry permits for today's venture into the casinos as well as putting together some clothes. The Ranch had one whole room dedicated to lost and found since men in the throes of passion tended to forget things like luggage. Last night he filled a suitcase with underwear, jeans, shirts, a jacket and spare shoes. Today he wore a suit and tie in shades of blue. But the suitcases held only men's clothes. For Marta, he'd had to rely on the working girls, and although they were generous, their closets held mostly evening wear and stiletto heels. The purple strapless she wore had actually been one of the more conservative outfits offered. "We're stopping at Walmart," she'd said when she'd seen her choices this morning.

Aaron had laid out the smart phones too, but they were dead. They'd either have to ditch them or get some recharging cables at Walmart.

In between the forging and the packing, there had been the conversation with Auntie. She'd come in about midnight while he was finishing up the new driver licenses. He made no effort to hide what he was doing. She watched for a while then asked, "Are you a bad man, Kenny?"

That was Auntie, cutting right to the heart of the matter. "I try not to be, but …" he began, but Auntie interrupted him.

"It doesn't matter, sweetie. I actually came here to apologize." She sort of sucked in her lips. Apologies didn't come easy for her. "It didn't occur to me when I suggested the Doc Winters thing … I mean, Doc always likes things kinda … Tawny didn't know."

Only Auntie knew the real reason why he'd run away from Berwin that first night. He'd sobbed it out while she held him in her lap. She didn't know who it had been. She'd just been there for him. "It's okay, Auntie. It was a long time ago. And he's dead now, that guy … you know …" And even after that mess yesterday Marta thought he was sexy. He held that close. He'd never really considered himself anything but a soldier, at least not since he'd become Aaron Cross. Kenny had been a child waiting to grow up and be a hero. Aaron had been that hero. Or maybe he was the villain. He was never sure anymore.

Auntie went stiff then asked quietly, "Did you kill him?"

This was Auntie who was asking. He told the absolute truth. "No, but I wanted to."

She shook her head. "Kenny, maybe it's not my place but you were such a sweet little boy. You've changed. I see you so scared all of the time. And angry. I'm not just a dumb old whore, I can tell you're smarter now." Aaron made a protesting noise. "Hush now. I'm just saying, don't lose yourself. Don't lose that little boy I loved." He hugged her shoulders and they sat that way for a moment, each with their thoughts. Auntie pulled away and took something from a jacket pocket and laid it down on the desk next to his work area - a Nevada car title Amanda Cross. "It's not the van," she said. "It's the Ranchero. A wedding gift for you and Marta."

"The Ranchero?" he asked in awe. "But we're not …" A turquoise and white Ford pickup that looked more like a chopped and hollowed sedan, the '57 Ranchero had tailfins to poke your eyes out. It had been Amanda's baby and personal car his whole life. He'd learned to drive stick in that car. The rumor was that it had been a wedding gift from Amanda's dead husband. She took good care of it. Last year she'd bought a new cargo cover and digital stereo. It still had Obama/Biden and "Berkley for Senate" bumper stickers. Auntie wasn't ashamed of her politics. And years ago when CB radio was all the rage, she'd gone one step further and put in a single side band. They use to listen to the airplane pilots taking off and landing at Reno-Tahoe International and on good nights they sometimes caught ham operators talking in strange and wonderful languages. Of course, most nights Amanda was busy, but he'd sneak out and twirl the dials until he heard something. Then Amanda's weather report settings would be all messed up.

Auntie smiled. "You will, baby. Trust Auntie. She knows love. You just get that wedding ring on her finger before you lose her for good." She sighed. For his sake she was trying hard not to cry, but making a bad job of it. He hugged her and told her that he loved her.

Then they talked practicalities. Doc Winters had been briefed and was currently enjoying himself at the Ranch for free, the first night of many, a privilege Auntie negotiated with him in exchange for his silence. Aaron tried to give Auntie $10,000 cash to cover it, but she'd refused. "Fawny and Tawny are donating their time. They say you're more fun than Beauty and the Beast."

The next morning Aaron gave the two sex kittens all of Randy's gold and silver chains, Randy's pistol that had lain in the bottom of the back pack for quite a while and a pair of deep throated kisses to remember him by. They'd stared at him in surprise. With them he'd pretty much dropped his Kenny Kitsom act. Like Marta they'd seen parts of him he hadn't even seen himself.

He'd prepped Marta on the trip in to Reno. He gave her a list of phone numbers to memorize, including the calls that would blow up the penthouse and the hotel. She'd taken it with fair good grace, but she had been unhappy about the possibility of yet more violence. This life was getting to her, he could tell - the death, destruction and endless pain. It had been all he had known since he'd joined the Outcome program. He could take it as long as necessary. Could she?

As they entered the outskirts of Reno Marta talked about how Outcome meds and viruses worked. He had the impression she was thinking out loud. He left the science to her, not because he couldn't understand it but because it was her first love.

He didn't fool himself. Before they'd started running, it had been her whole life and he'd only been a science project, interesting but not really a human being. He'd wanted her even then. No, let's be honest, he'd loved her, but she'd never wanted him, especially now when she'd seen him kill, steal and violate every normal standard of human decency. He was the boogie man, the monster under the bed.

And now he and Marta were here, parked outside the Gilded Palace Casino. She'd agreed to finish the drug deal with Torres, but only provisionally. "We'll see how it goes," she'd said this morning. He wished she'd come down one way or another. He found her wait and see attitude unsettling, but so scientific, so very, very Marta.

"You're tired, we should wait." Marta was saying now. He realized he'd been sitting quietly for several minutes.

"No. We'll do it now." He made an effort to re-energize his body. He was letting his fatigue affect his thinking, making him negative. Not a good way to start their move into enemy territory. "You're dressed up and everything is ready to go." And she might lose her nerve or change her mind. She'd hated strapping on the gun and grimaced in annoyance all through his three minute lesson on how to draw, work the safety, shoot and change the clip of the little automatic.

Marta put a hand on his arm. "Aaron, look at me." He looked. "It's still morning. You need some sleep. I can put the makeup back on." Her eyes searched his face. "I could use a nap too."

She was lying about that last item. But it was a good one. Her micro-expression facial control had improved dramatically. And he realized something crucial. "You're not afraid of me anymore." At least she wasn't right now, at this moment. She wasn't afraid at all, of anything. She was as calm and cool and in control as she'd been back in the days at the red lab. He was proud of her.

"Afraid of you? I've never been afraid of you," she said.

"You've always been afraid of me, Marta." It had been one of the truths he'd lived with the past few weeks, that no matter how much she needed him, he frightened her, that there would be no future for them because she could never trust him. Auntie had thought differently, but he knew the truth.

She looked like she meant to deny it again so he relented on her suggestion to rest, "You're right, I could use a nap." He should never have brought it up. He couldn't deal with a soul-searching, in-depth talk right now.


	18. Chapter 18

Chapter 18

The fat man smelled like chocolate and sweat, Marta realized. And a pretty young female card dealer smelled like something musky, maybe sex. She heard a woman whisper to her husband that she needed a toilet, and they stood fifteen feet away. She saw a blackjack player slip a card from his sleeve into his hand with the tiniest of movements. A faint clicking, out of sync with the spinning wheel, drew her attention to a roulette table. She walked over. The clicking came from the floor.

And she felt endlessly annoyed with everything - the discomforts of her skin tight dress, the unfamiliar wig, the gun harness chafing under her arms, the wedding ring on her finger, the Ranchero's keys between her breasts and the spike heels that made walking a ballet of balance and coordination. All Outcome participants had reported the same initial reaction – persistent annoyance. She was beginning to understand why. Sensitized skin, ears, eyes, tongue, the whole package chafed with constant stimulation. She couldn't turn it off.

Sometime during the drive in from the Moon Bunny Ranch, she'd accepted that she'd been enhanced. It had been obvious when she could read road signs from a mile away. H*ll she'd been considering getting reading glasses just a month ago. Later she'd figure out the how and why. Right now she was dealing only with the what - what she'd tell Aaron. It helped to compartmentalize like that, to tackle only one unbelievable obstruction at a time.

But she did have a theory. And at Walmart while Aaron had been buying guns, she'd gone to the pharmacy and bought a kit to test it out. Tonight she'd know the truth of that one. One way or another. Dear God.

Aaron wouldn't be happy about this new complication. Leaving the Ranch had broken his heart. There was only one chance in way-too-many-to-count of him ever seeing Auntie again. Now he had yet another complication to deal with. And it was a complication. Enhancement involved a lot of medical and psychological issues that needed close monitoring. She might collapse with another fever any time … or be driven out of her mind by the burden of enhanced emotions, consumed by a raging fear or love or obsession, the golden oldies that drove even ordinary humans to the brink tripled and quadrupled until her life would be nothing but an emotional bonfire, raging out of control.

Benezara had theorized that the blues and greens not only enhanced mental and physical performance but also emotional perception. Since one-third, three out of the original nine, Outcome inoculants succumbed to mental illness statistics tended to argue in his favor. Actually if you added Black to that tally, it was 40 percent or almost half of the agents who'd fallen apart under emotional strain. So much to look forward to.

She wasn't even sure yet if she had both physical and mental enhancements, or a full measure of either. She really had no way to be sure without equipment she was never going to find except in a research hospital. Or a government funded facility like the red lab.

If her theory about how she'd been enhanced tested out, she might be desperate enough to take a chance, to sell out, because then it wouldn't be just her life on the line.

No wonder she was jumpy. Tonight. Wait for tonight.

They'd left all of the luggage in the car and Aaron had rented a room for the afternoon only. He'd been exhausted, even depressed, sad. In the last few weeks she'd seen him angry, anxious and determined. They'd had so little peaceful time together, he was still mostly a stranger. She'd reached out last night, but this was today and Aaron's proposed drug deal was fast burning away her good feelings.

Maybe it was leaving the Ranch, or that escapade yesterday with the girls, or maybe he was tired, but she'd never seen him so low, so withdrawn.

She'd watched him sleep for a while, but it had brought back memories of Manila and that horrible night when she'd expected him to die any minute. She'd felt like a murderer. He'd asked for the blue virus, but she'd given it to him. His determination had pulled her along until the needle had been in his arm and the virus entering his bloodstream. Then it had been too late to change her mind. Life, death and homicide had walked a fine line that night.

Well, she wasn't exactly Miss Cheerfulness today either, was she?

Before Aaron lay down he'd said "watch TV if you like" and she'd turned it on but the daytime drivel made her even more restless and the hotel didn't seem to have any dedicated news channel (who watches news at a casino?), so she'd taken off her spike heels and tiptoed out, leaving the TV on to cover her escape.

He'd be okay, she told herself. She'd only be gone an hour.

At Walmart Aaron had bought two pre-paid cell phones, much beloved by thieves and spies. She would have taken one, but they were charging on the dresser, along with one of Randy's smart phones. "For contacting Torres," Aaron had said.

She'd wondered why Aaron risked keeping the smart phones given how popular cop shows like CSI and NCIS often tracked bandits through their phones, but he said it was safe to use for another day. "Torres hasn't even reported Randy and Xavier missing. Probably told his sister to keep her mouth shut. The drug deal is everything at that level." He smiled. "And despite cop shows, it usually takes a few days to get a warrant. Plus there'll be jurisdiction issues between Frisco and Reno, not to mention the FBI when something like this crosses state lines. Spies love bureaucracies. Makes our job so much easier." Two boys dead, and no one looking for them. It had been almost a week now. It was sad.

The drugs were everything, Aaron had said. Human life was nothing. At the Ranch Aaron's wheeling and dealing had seemed far away. Now it was back. She'd tried to tell herself that her job at Sterisyn hadn't been much better (after all they had basically been getting Outcome agents high on their own body chemistry) but she couldn't accept it. She'd had too many friends, and enemies for that matter, who'd baked their brains into mush. There had to be another way of making money. She didn't understand how Aaron could be involved. This drug deal was turning her stomach.

Wait a minute. What was she thinking? Aaron murdered, lied, stole. Drug dealing was nothing, a tiny blip of immorality.

Marta felt a hand sliding along her hip. She'd been standing watching the roulette wheel, trying to figure how it had been rigged. Both men and women crowded close on all sides. Grabbing the offending hand, she gave it a Tai Chi twist and suddenly had a young woman kneeling at her feet, howling in pain. People around them hurriedly backed away.

A security guard was at her side in seconds. "Ma'am, let her go."

Marta threw up her hands and stepped back. "Sorry, I thought she was trying to pick my pocket."

The guard's eyebrows commented about the possibility of pockets in Marta's strapless dress, but he held onto the kneeling woman and said, "Well, if it isn't Suzy Cue. How are you, Suzy? Looking for a night in lockup?" He gestured to another guard who hauled her away.

He turned back to Marta and said, "You got a concealed carry permit for that, Ma'am?" He'd seen her gun.

Fifteen minutes, a trip to the guard station and considerable inspection of her fake carry permit later, Marta returned to the elevator. The casino had regulations prohibiting weapons on the premises, but she'd pleaded ignorance. The guard had thought she was working girl, of course, and she'd gone with it. Said her pimp was upstairs and that he expected all his girls to protect themselves. The guard had taken the two $100 bills she had on her and agreed that it was a very sensible policy.

She should have never left their room. She'd wasted $200 and drawn attention to herself, and although she'd tried to avoid the cameras Aaron had pointed out as they checked in, realistically some of them would have caught her. Aaron was going to be so p*ssed.

At the door to their room she was about to swipe her key card when she realized what she was hearing through the door - breaking and banging and a mix of angry voices. She almost decided it was the TV, then realized that the sounds came from different parts of the room.

Letting her hand rest on the butt of her gun, she tried to decide on a plan. Nothing came to mind. Saying, "F**k it," she swiped the key, and pushed the door open fast, gun out, safety off, ready to shoot.


	19. Chapter 19

Chapter 19

Aaron came awake with a jerk, instantly aware and oriented. Not good. His subconscious had processed danger and woke him up. The unmistakable hard shape of a gun barrel pressed into the back of his head. He lay on his right side facing Torres' traitor lieutenant, a tall sour-faced man named Lockwood. Since Lockwood wasn't dead, he could only assume Torres had failed to achieve his internal "realignment" and the rival gang, the Spots, now controlled the Gilded Palace operation. No matter. Aaron didn't care who bought, as long as he sold.

"Ah, Mr. …" Lockwood read from the hotel registration slip he must have found on the dresser, "…Smith. Really, couldn't you pick something better? Well, welcome back to the Gilded Palace anyway. Can I rely on you to be a reasonable man?"

He didn't see or hear Marta. Dead? Gone? Lockwood turned off the TV, an afternoon news program featuring national and international death and destruction and a recorded explosion of an attack in Afghanistan that repeated every few seconds. That explained at least some of how they'd managed to sneak up on him.

Marta had left him unprotected. Why? Was she going to leave him? She hated this drug deal. Did she want out? She had learned enough that she could run on her own now. He found himself almost hoping she was gone. She would be safer away from him, just hiding and living from day to day. He should never have brought her back to the States. He would still go after Sterisyn and Ric Byer. Marta would never be safe until he did.

Aaron had the Desert Eagle under his pillow, but initial contact with a drug buyer wasn't always comfortable. He decided to play it wimpy. Crumpling his face into fear, he whined, "What's going on? How did you get in here?" He raised a hand to push the gun away, risky but the average Joe would still be half awake. He had to be Mr. Average.

The hand was seized and twisted behind him with full strength and two hands. The gun still dented his scalp. Two men behind him then, and the one in front. He let them force him onto his stomach and now both of his hands were seized. Besides the gun he had Randy's jack knife in his coat pocket, but he'd stripped down to his slacks and a wifebeater to sleep. His jacket and shirt hung in the closet.

"Get him up," Lockwood said in p*ss poor Russian. He nodded toward the table and chairs. "In a chair."

Two bulky Slavs hauled Aaron out of bed. Then began an investigative process in which Aaron learned -

That Lockwood was after the rest of the drug shipment ("You're going to tell me or learn how to eat without teeth.")

That he'd tracked him through Randy's smart phone ("You're a stupid b*stard, Smith." Aaron had to agree with that one. He'd had no idea that drug dealers had access to phone company information. But with enough money you can buy almost anything.)

That Lockwood was not the man in charge. ("My boss has drug suppliers around the world. We don't need you.")

The Slavs, Ivan and Dmitri, while big and heavy, were not smart. Dmitri held his arms and Ivan punched while Aaron danced, jerked and deflected and made a lot of pained sounding noise. The beating looked worse than it felt, not that it felt great.

The Slavs spoke much better Russian than Lockwood. Ivan wanted to try the hot tub in someone named Benedict's digs, apparently located in Torres' former penthouse headquarters. Dmitri speculated on how much Benedict would pay them. ("And then we'll kill a whole case of vodka!" said Dmitri. "A good death!" said Ivan.)

That they didn't know about Marta. Thank God. She had the keys to the Ranchero. He hoped she was long gone. Black wouldn't be the last man Byer would send for him. She needed to be elsewhere.

When he heard the door open and Marta's shout, Lockwood was pacing back and forth cursing loudly, Dmitri was breaking up a chair to use its legs for clubs and Ivan was pulling out a phone cord to tie Aaron up. As the door opened, Aaron twisted his arms free of Ivan's beefy hands, grabbed a sharpened pencil from the table and jammed it into his thick neck. A gun went off, and Dmitri staggered. Aaron used the table to knock him the rest of the way off his feet and was about to hammer down Lockwood, when the bastard fired his pistol at Marta dead center.

Oh God, oh no.

Lockwood went down and out but too late. Aaron bowed over him, his fight gone, his will gone. His knees gave out. He couldn't turn and look at Marta's lifeless body. He couldn't even breathe.

A hand grasped his shoulder and Marta's impossible voice asked at the same time, "Aaron, are you all right?"


	20. Chapter 20

Chapter 20

Aaron gave Marta a tormented, heart-rending look. "How … ? You can't be alive."

She'd not only seen the shooter pull the trigger but also the bullet in flight. It had been incredible. She'd never heard or read of any of the Outcome participants reporting anything like that. And her brain had calculated the move to avoid it and put her body in motion before conscious thought had even processed the danger. That was something participants had reported – autonomic brain/body coordination. Chandra had argued that it was learned behavior, like playing piano or typing, merely speeded up. Apparently not totally. Marta had never been trained in close combat beyond Aaron's brief Tai Chi lessons.

"Look who's talking. When I heard them in here, I thought … Aaron, you've got so many lives, you're like a whole bag full of cats. I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have left you alone. I went down to the casino and …"

"Shh, Shh. They tracked the smart phone. It was my fault." He held her out at arm's length and looked her over. "You're okay? You're not hurt?" His eyes still held that haunted look.

"I'm fine." He let her go and turned back to the bodies. "What are you doing? You're robbing them again aren't you?" He rifled through their pockets. The thin man groaned and started to move. One of the bulky ones had a pencil in a carotid artery and was obviously dead. The other had blood running down his face. He could be alive. Maybe.

"I need to know who they are and who sent them," Aaron replied in French. Marta looked at him surprise. She'd never heard him speak French. He had a Parisian accent. "I don't want them to know what we're saying."

"Oh, well, okay. Torres is dead? We're leaving, right? The drug deal is blown?"

"No, there's some guy named Benedict. If I can talk to him, we might still be able to cut a deal." He tucked the tall, thin man's phone into his coat pocket and started going through the wallets quickly, pulling out cards and money.

"Cut a deal? Aaron, we have to get out of here!" The drug deal had definitely gone south. What was Aaron thinking?

"Fine, let's go," he said. Taking a pistol off the floor, the one that had just been fired at her, he handed it to Marta. "But we can't leave witnesses. If you do the big guy Dmitri, I'll do Lockwood. Okay?"

"He's not dead?" Marta asked, looking down at the huge man lying on the floor.

Aaron shrugged. He handed her a bed pillow. "Wrap it around your gun. It'll muffle the gunshot."

Lockwood, if that was Mr. Long and Skinny's name, had been struggling back to consciousness. Aaron pointed his own Desert Eagle at him and in English told him to stay down. Lockwood squinted up and said, "Hey, no hard feelings, huh, Smith? It was just business."

"No, no hard feelings at all." Aaron moved his gun to Lockwood's forehead. He told Marta in French, "Dmitri will be easier. He's down for the count. Lockwood here is just going to keep talking until I do him. Come on, we have to hurry. A cop will be here any minute. It's standard casino response to shots fired."

Marta had seldom seen Aaron like this. So malevolently cold-blooded. But he was right, they couldn't leave witnesses behind. And she couldn't expect Aaron to be her assassin on-call. If they had to die, she must be part of the execution squad.

But she couldn't do it. She couldn't even point her gun at the man. "No, no," Marta said. "You're right. Let's see if we can cut a deal."

Aaron smiled. "That's my girl." Switching to English, he spoke to Lockwood, "Get Dmitri on his feet. We're going to talk to your boss Benedict." To Marta, "Keep an eye on them."

Lockwood rose and went to Dmitri, kicked him. No response. Checked his pulse. "He's dead, you bastard." Marta threatened him with her gun and he backed off.

Another man dead. Would the violence ever end? Aaron didn't respond to Lockwood, just kept pulling on clothes.


	21. Chapter 21

Chapter 21

The service elevator hauled furniture as well as maid carts, so thick vinyl pads hung on every wall and long skid marks marked the floor. Marta assumed Aaron got a pass key for it from Lockwood's pockets, but when they reached the penthouse floor, Aaron had keyed in its entry code apparently from memory. He'd said he'd been here two days ago. And there were the phone numbers he'd had her memorize for blowing the place up. He'd been planning some of this for days.

As soon as they left their hotel room, Aaron was on the phone, mostly speaking broken Russian in a voice not quite his own. Marta caught only the pronouns you, me, he and Lockwood's name. With an angry growl, he snapped the phone shut. "Can't get past the front man," he said. "Lockwood, you're not as important as you think you are, but at least they think I'm dead."

They stood in a small foyer between the elevator and a beautiful set of wooden doors that had no lock. The elevator was the lock. "Stay back and let me lead," Aaron hissed. She nodded and with her gun gestured what she hoped was a "go for it." His face took on that look that she'd come to think of as "murder mode." Slamming open the right side door, he shoved Lockwood through. Nothing happened, not even a yelp of alarm so he followed.

Marta had a slice of view.

Lockwood had fallen down a short flight of entry steps, rolled away and to his knees. "Boss, boss, watch out!"

"Ah, look, dear," a masculine voice rumbled, "we have a visitor. Lockwood, if you don't shut up, I will shoot you myself." A gun barrel had materialized near Aaron's head. He raised his hands in surrender. His gun was snatched away by a dark hand. The voice continued, "Come on in, whoever you are out there, or I will kill him."

He couldn't keep doing this to Marta, Aaron thought. He couldn't keep doing it to himself. The terror of Lockwood's gunshot still made his heart beat too fast. That made three times in as many days he'd almost lost her. She had to be safe for both of their sakes. Although initial contact with Benedict had gone as well as could be expected, since they were both still alive, Marta was not safe. He couldn't keep her safe. He shouldn't try anymore. She'd never be safe with him. It had to end today. He didn't know he'd do it yet, but he'd find a way.

Marta stood next to him. She looked angry. She liked her plans to behave like her lab projects, each step neatly executed, no surprises. She would never be happy fighting day by day, the way he'd lived his life for the last four years, the way the rest of his life would play out, and let's be realistic, it was going to be brutal and short.

He put his hands behind his head as a gesture of surrender. Marta copied him. Somewhere on the trip up from their room she'd taken off the dreadful white wig and thrown it in the garbage. Her hair clung to her head in sweaty, flat curls.

Two penthouse walls showed spectacular views of early evening Reno, a third had doors to other rooms, the fourth where they stood the main entry to the elevators. In the center of the large room a blonde woman of maybe 50 moved out from behind an impressionist sculpture that resembled a flow of coins. The sculpture had been in the middle of a shootout. Gashes marked the otherwise smooth green stone. Modern, squared off couches and chairs in a cash color scheme of greens, greys and chrome were scattered around the room. The walls were painted black, the floors were white marble. Everywhere there were fresh bullet holes.

The woman carried a small, spotted and mostly hairless dog in the crook of her arm and wore a short and revealing black evening dress that made Marta's look conservative. She seemed attenuated, stretched, scraped down. She'd obviously once been very beautiful. "Oh, you were wrong, Jed, love. It isn't Genghis Khan, it's Barbarossa!" She dropped the dog to the floor, raised her hands and declared, "Barbie, it's so good to see you again."

Barbarossa, his training pseudonym, his name after Kenny and before Aaron Cross. That made this Helen and Jed Robinson, his first trainers, CIA operatives he'd always assumed, but if they were here, they had been Torres' competition, and were running the Spots' drug operation … They looked different. But then they would. Helen had always been fond of the surgeon's knife. Jed followed where Helen led.

They had been CIA, or more likely ex-CIA. Were they working for Byer? Would they sell them to Byer? What was supposed to be a simple drug sell had morphed into another encounter with sudden death, and once again it had spun out of Aaron's control. With his back to the door, he wanted to turn and run with Marta into the night, but instead he let his arms drop into a proffered hug, "Helen, sweetheart! It's been years." If it was a fight, it wasn't here yet. Air kisses followed.

Turning he nodded to her husband Jed who had been the man behind the door, at least he'd always assumed the muscular, dark skinned close combat trainer was her husband. Jed was at least 10 years younger than Helen, maybe more. Jed looked ready to take him down and beat him into a bloody pulp, but he always did. Jed was what pop culture would call Aaron's frenemy. Jed had never accepted that Aaron would always be stronger and faster.

Marta had made the right call on this. He should have killed Lockwood and they should have run. Now they were neatly caught in a sticky web of deceit.

Marta hesitantly dropped her hands. "Barbarossa?" she asked.

Helen turned to her with a flourish. She'd always been like that, a drama queen. She'd told Aaron it was her default personality, but he'd seen her do many others, ranging from housewife to stone cold killer. A lot of her spycraft training had been acting lessons. "But surely this isn't June Monroe. Didn't the mob catch up with her after Byer sent you back to Afghanistan? Such a shame, and you kept her safe for so long."

Damn, Marta would never let that go. She still asked him about June Monroe now and then.

Jed re-holstered his gun and waved away a flock of henchmen who had appeared like a swarm of house flies. Before the henchies melted away with Lockwood in tow, Jed summoned one closer for whispered instructions, then he turned back to his wife. "No, my dear, don't you recognize her? She was all over TV news just a month or two ago. This is one of those Outcome people, Dr. Marta Shearing. Remember, I showed you the information I dug up after Barbarossa broke my arm. Nothing human should be that strong. No offense, Barbie, or should I say Aaron Cross?" There had been something off about that. Jed hadn't exactly been lying, but he'd held something back. Had the Outcome files been supplied by Byer?

"None taken, Jed. I prefer Aaron, if you don't mind." He found himself turning toward the door. There was no elevator sound, no footsteps in the foyer, but he didn't trust the Robinsons … the Benedicts … whoever the f**k they were. They knew way too much about him and Marta. "Who's Genghis Khan?" he asked.

"One of the other Outcome agents we trained, number three, I believe," Jed told him. "Isn't that right, dear?"

"Yes, yes. But you have Doctor Marta Kristina Shearing, Barbie. That's so wonderful," Helen interjected. "I didn't think you had it in you to be so devious! You were always more of a soldier than a saboteur. Such a prize! Can we help you shop her around? I can think of several buyers right now."

Buyers, for Marta. And what about him? "Why are we really here, Helen? Are you working for Byer? Is he on his way?" Lockwood and his team had been a test of some kind, perhaps even bait to lure them up here.

"Oh, no, no. Byer has no backing at the CIA anymore. Well, he does in theory, but they're weaning him off, and he doesn't have enough funding for a decent bounty. We looked at it, but you'd be too expensive to take down. Why, here we are being friends and you've killed two of our people." She gave him a hard stare. "You do believe me, don't you? Why don't you do one of those truth stares, I taught you? Look at my eyes, sweetie, check out those micro-expressions. I am telling you the truth."

"What do you mean 'buyers'? You mean people who want my skills in virology and genetics?" Marta asked.

"Not people, darling, corporations, governments. And they don't particularly want you. They want Outcome."

Aaron broke in, "Marta, this not a great idea." Or was it? She'd rejected it back in Hong Kong. But if Helen had a buyer lined up, it might be Marta's best option, what he'd been wanting for her. A safe place, protection, even work she could do. He'd lose her … but he was always going to lose her. Right from the very beginning he knew that he would eventually lose her. Auntie Amanda had told him so just last night.

Marta ignored Aaron's objection. "Will they have the Outcome research or do I have to rebuild it from scratch?"

"Well, there's one buyer who has the files, dear." Helen and Marta walked away talking. Aaron watched, left behind and alone.

"She wants to sell out?" Jed said at Aaron's elbow.

"Yeah, looks like it," he  
replied. "Who's Helen talking about? The buyer with the files?" It had better not be Ric Byer or they were leaving now, even if he had shoot his way out.

"Candent. They blind copied everything they sent to the CIA. At least that's what Boyd tells me."

Candent, the Sterisyn parent company and thus a party to the original Outcome study. A massive corporate conglomerate in pharma, rivaling Bayer and Pfizer, with offices in Europe and Asia. If it wanted to stick it to the CIA and keep its data and its program, it could do it. While it didn't have more money than God, it could afford to outspend the CIA on a specific project. The CIA had the world as its beat. Candent only cared about relatively tiny pieces of it.

As a research venture, Outcome had been supremely successful. It had huge potential in making revolutionary changes in medicine. While Congressional hearings were digging into the Jason Bourne/Treadstone fiasco and Ric Byer had advised Candent to bury Outcome, LARX and the rest, mostly to cover the collective CIA ass, Candent Group did not intend to waste the millions it had invested in the projects. It wanted Marta back.

It was the perfect set up for her.

But who was Boyd? The only Boyd he knew of was Peter Boyd, Marta's former lover, long gone. And he'd been, what? A researcher in animal behavior? Something like that. "Boyd's our contact at Candent," Jed told him. "Since we were moving on Reno and it was one of the top possibles for snagging Shearing, he's been calling us pretty much every day. Even says he'll arrange a nice little under-the-counter pipeline for schedule II and III drugs if we bring her in." They'd been walking toward the penthouse's kitchen, where Aaron could hear the off-duty guard staff rattling pans and chatting while they cooked an evening meal. Jed stopped and turned toward Aaron. "He's not made an offer for you, but I think that's just because Candent brass doesn't expect you to come in on your own. Your rep. proceedeth you, man."

"My files proceedeth me." Aaron sighed. Jed had told mostly the truth, but had held something back. Probably how much he and Helen expected to make on the deal. Or the likelihood that he would be killed. Something that would not bother Jed at all. "Thanks, man. You have a phone number for this Boyd?"

Jed gave him the stink eye.

Ah yes, there was just one little detail still outstanding. Aaron threw up his hands. "Okay, okay, Jed. Slipped my mind. I'll show you where I stashed the rest of Joachim's drug delivery."


	22. Chapter 22

Chapter 22

Marta laid the pregnancy test stick on the bathroom counter and forced herself to take nice even breaths. The test had been positive. Now what? Aaron thought she was taking a shower and changing clothes before dinner. She had to make a decision.

She couldn't. H*ll, she couldn't even think.

She was carrying a baby with Outcome DNA already in its blood, in every cell of its body, Aaron's baby. The baby's cells circulating in her blood stream were acting like the green and blue chems, enhancing her body, maybe even viraling her out. That had been her premise, that yesterday's high fever had been a sort of grand slam morning sickness, her body adapting to the baby's enhanced DNA. It might be temporary, it might be permanent. It definitely wasn't the controlled Outcome biochemistry experiment she'd worked on for the last four years with its individually tailored dosages.

If she hadn't been so distracted by staying alive she would have foreseen it. When Aaron viraled out, he stopped taking the chems. It was the chems that had made him sterile, not the virus. He stopped the chems, he stopped being sterile. So stupidly simple.

It takes a research scientist to be so blind. A 38 year old research scientist who has never been pregnant before.

Her pregnancy would be anything but normal. With its fast cellular tempo the baby's growth could be so accelerated it might suck her dry like a vampire, killing them both. Or its primordial "junk" DNA could activate and she'd give birth to a monster. She could think of even more morbid possibilities. If she wanted the baby to survive, she needed resources. At the very least she needed their past Outcome data and a well-equipped laboratory, things she'd never get on the run. Things even Aaron couldn't steal for her. It was time to rethink her strategy. She'd been following Aaron, trusting him. She still trusted him, but this was science and he was a soldier.

Besides children couldn't mean a lot to him. He'd been told that Outcome would leave him sterile and signed up anyway. This had to be her choice not his.

If she sold her Outcome knowledge, it would be just her. Helen had said the "buyers" didn't want Aaron, that he was too dangerous. "Unless he came in willingly, of course. You know, as part of a package deal."

Aaron had fought too long and too hard to stay free. Marta couldn't ask him to make such a huge sacrifice, to cage himself like that. Besides a "buyer" would be just as likely to dissect him as study him. The most loving thing she could do would be to set him free.

Free, as in he would be gone forever and she'd never see him again.

Tears started to roll down her face. She turned the shower back on. Maybe she could wash away the tears.

Aaron clicked the burner phone closed. After so much running and fighting it had taken just a five minute phone call to arrange Marta's future and permanently break his heart. Boyd hadn't asked him his name, just where Marta was. But he'd called him "Cross" and asked if he was coming in too. "We've got a deal for you."

"Sure, I'll be here," he'd lied. At least he thought he had.

There was no way of knowing how soon the Candent capture team would arrive. He had to leave. He had to get out of here. But he couldn't leave without seeing her again. The Robinsons and their employees had abandoned the penthouse right after Jed had given him Boyd's phone number. If he left now, Marta would come out of the shower to an empty penthouse. At the very least, she'd be frightened. And when the Candent people arrived she'd think they were the CIA b*stards that had been trailing them for months and get herself killed trying to escape. He had to stay long enough to tell her what was going to happen.

And he had to say the words. To tell her that he loved her so she'd remember more about him than his case file.

Marta finally left the bathroom, a stricken look on her face, her eyes pink and sunken as if she'd been crying. She didn't look at him. In fact, she looked everywhere but at him. Sitting down on the bed, she began to pull on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt Helen had given her. The t-shirt said, "CIA Headquarters, where secrecy is our middle name (but don't tell anyone)." She glanced up and found him staring. He couldn't help himself. He wanted to drink her in. To remember every tiny move she made. Every nuance. Marta blushed under his stare.

Was he really going to leave her? Yesterday when she'd been sick, he'd said he'd never leave her again. Did it take only one day to make a liar out of him?

She looked so unhappy, so heartbroken. Something had happened. "Tell me about June Monroe," she said.

Asking about June was a feint, he could tell that, something to keep him talking and not asking her questions. But Marta should know about June Monroe. For a while she'd been June. Surely he had a few more minutes to tell her about that unhappy chapter of his life. He'd avoided telling her before because he'd failed to protect June. It wasn't a good memory.

He sat down beside her, "It was Mexico and I had two guys, Monroe and Edwards, working for me. We were running drugs for the CIA. Don't ask, please, that's a conversation we can have some other time, okay? But it went sour and both of them were killed by the Sinaloa cartel, mostly because my guys weren't enhanced and our backup was sh*t. We were driving up at night, twenty-three miles south of the border, and the cartel blew our car off the road. I walked away and they didn't." It hadn't been quite that simple. He'd had to tear his way out of a wreck coated with the blood and shattered body parts of the two other men. They had been in the front seat and taken the brunt of the explosion. Then he'd sprinted a quarter of a mile to catch the shooters' sand buggy, broken their necks one, two, three, and afterwards ghosted through the Mexican desert up to the border, his entire body purple with bruises. The bruises were gone in three days. Bruises never lasted on him. The memory of two men converted to meat in a matter of seconds would never go away until he died, which would probably be very soon even if he left Marta tonight. There would be no purpose left in his life. With Marta safe in Candent's hands, he didn't even have to destroy Sterisyn and Ric Byer.

Marta stood up to pull on her jeans. Zipped them. Sat down again. Kept her face turned away. Silent. Her hands were shaking. She smelled like the bath soap she'd just used and like tears, salty, watery and undefinably like the Marta Shearing that he'd known for four sweet years, but a little different, a tiny subtle difference that had just started tonight.

Marta was so upset and she didn't even know he was leaving her. Who was he kidding? Even if she had known, it wouldn't get her this upset.

Would it?

He kept talking. "Anyway, Monroe had told me at one point about his sister June back in San Francisco, how she was in witness protection, but he'd didn't trust the marshals. This Mafia guy, his name was Reynolds, was after her and he had enough money to buy himself a leak in their dike."

"Reynolds doesn't sound very Mafia." Her voice was quiet. He put his arm around her shoulders, pulled a cheek close. Kissed it. She smiled faintly in response. It was so good to hold her. He should have listened to Auntie and stopped on the way in at one of Reno's numerous wedding chapels. He could have convinced Marta do go along with it somehow or another, some cover story about having a wedding certificate to validate their trip. He would have thought of something. Too late now.

Aaron sighed. "I didn't ask. I guess I really didn't care who his daddy was." He sighed again. Every time he thought about telling her what was about to happen and that he was leaving her, his thoughts shied away. "So after Mexico, I took some leave and went looking for June. I figured I owed Monroe. I found her but if I could find her, so could Reynolds. I told her she had to leave witness protection and I'd make her a new name and a new life to keep her safe until the trial. She must have already had some doubts because she went with me, no problem … and I told her how her brother died. That broke her heart. Anyway, I moved her to a new city, not as far away as I wanted but she refused to leave California. And then … Byer sent me a recall and I had to either report in or desert." He rubbed his face. "I should have deserted."

He could have gone maybe two weeks on the blues and greens he'd had with him, long enough to keep June safe. Then he would have been just plain ordinary Kenny Kitsom again, no enhancement, no super powers. He could have gone back to Reno and lived with Auntie. He could have made a life. Look at the life he had. Was it any better? Not really.

When he'd signed up in the Outcome program, he'd been told that enhancement was both a gift and a responsibility. But he'd actually found it more of a drug and he'd been greedy for it.

"I knew someday Byer or his bosses would try to kill me, I knew it was coming, but I didn't want to believe it. I could have run for it with June, but I wanted to be superman some more and I convinced myself she was safe. I reported back in and she died. I think she called a friend and they traced her down." It didn't help that he'd later killed Reynolds and his whole crew. June was still dead. She'd been a sweet, brave woman willing to testify against a big bad Mafia boss, but bravery by itself doesn't keep you breathing.

Maybe that was what was going on with Marta. Maybe she was tired of being brave.

And maybe he was making a mistake trusting Candent. But it was too late. And if he left her, Candent would do whatever it wanted. Could he do it? Could he go? The minutes were ticking by and he still hadn't left.

"I'm sorry," she said. She was pulling in on herself. He could almost see the empty space she was trying to make around her. "That must have been hard." A traditional expression of mild sympathy. That was so unlike Marta.

"I've told you my secret, Marta. Why don't you tell me what's going on with you? Why are you so upset?"

She tried to look at him. Couldn't quite make it. "Nothing, there's nothing."

"Don't lie to me. You know I can tell when you lie."

Out in the main room of the penthouse the front doors opened and many footsteps rattled across the marble floor. Multiple male voices shouted military commands. "Cover that door! Check the hall!"

Candent was here for Marta.

It was too late. He'd waited too long. He'd known that he probably would as soon as he'd called Boyd. Yesterday he'd vowed that he would never leave her. Not for any reason. He couldn't leave her like he had June Monroe.

Now he was a dead man. It was good. He was okay with it. The questions, the running and the fear would be over and the last thing he would see, the last person he would speak to would be Marta. He was so tired. "Thank God," he thought. "Thank God."


	23. Chapter 23

Chapter 23

"Too bad Byer lost Dita to LARX," Zev told Artie. "She knew the Outcome peeps backwards and forwards." He opened another folder and spread it out. Actually he didn't miss Dita that much. She'd been as creepy as H*ll. To her, normal human reactions were merely "emotional noise."

After Outcome Two skipped on them, Byer demanded they analyze all nine of the outcome participants, both those who'd dropped out (also known as gone funky monkey, fruitcake and incurably insane) and those who'd survived to termination, and of course, Aaron Cross who had begun to earn Zev and Artie's awed, if silent admiration. They were looking for anything that might offer vulnerability. There was little else to do. A tentative Shearing sighting at a Nevada casino had yet to pan out, Byer wandered around like a big cat with a sore tooth, and the CIA's focus steadily shifted to the Bourne Treadstone fiasco, taking their dollars with them. They'd had a few inquiries about the bounty Byer had posted, but nothing notable. It was almost like something or someone was diverting information. If Zev were paranoid, he'd think they were being deliberately blocked.

Zev expected daily that Sterisyn Morlanta's parent company Candent International would drop him and Artie from the payroll, shut down this bio-chemical loser and hang them all out to dry. Oh, and wouldn't that make Byer happy? NRAG paid his salary, but they didn't favor losers. He might have to sell that big house out in Reston and go back to living on his bird colonel pension.

So far, so not good on the file analysis. Cross had been the most emotionally stable of the collection, his psychiatric evaluations closest to what Zev thought of as normal – remorseful, friendly, angry and sad, all in the right places. Sexually normal despite some childhood issues brought out in his hypnosis vetting. Clever without being paralyzed by analysis. A skilled combat specialist and assassin, which was how Byer had usually worked him. Several bad reviews from Byer, but Zev had his own personal collection of those, and everyone else had given him thumbs up, including interestingly Marta Shearing. She'd filed thirteen physical condition reports on Cross, all positively glowing. The greens and blues had done good by this guy, and with the Treadstone and Blackbriar programs going up in flames, not to mention LARX, Zev didn't quite get why Byer didn't just write him off and move on.

Personally, Zev thought Byer had a hard on for Cross. He said as much to Artie.

Artie rolled his eyes. "You haven't read all of Byer's bad reviews have you?" Zev shook his head. "Pull out the last one dated August 10. Read it." The review b*tched that Cross had threatened to kill Byer after a civilian died, some woman named June Monroe.

"Whoo! I'm beginning to get the drift. What happened?"

"Cross refused to work with Byer again, and he was pulled out of handling any of the Outcome agents. Byer said he could get him back under control, but NRAG didn't buy it. They were about to transfer him to LARX when Bourne started ripping up the black programs and Byer found something more fun to do – killing our own agents."

"No, I mean what happened to this June Monroe? What p*ssed off Cross?"

"I don't know all the details. Something about a Mafia hit. Byer picked a really bad time for a recall, and Cross blamed Byer for the woman's death."

"She was in the federal witness protection program, and he stole her out of it and hid her somewhere else. B*stard couldn't accept that he had no business messing with the situation," Byer said from the door. Zev and Artie suddenly tried to look very busy. "I assume you've found something useful since you seem to have time for gossip."

Artie, who had a slightly better relationship with Byer than Zev, shook his head. "We haven't found anything. I think Black may have been already unstable when we picked him up. Another week on blues and he might have evened out, but now we'll never know."

"Black's confirmed dead?"

Zev dared to answer. "Not yet. They're still trying to trace his credit card records but they don't make any sense, like someone is messing with our minds. So we're thinking he's down, otherwise he would be making ripples, good or bad. Black wasn't exactly in low profile mode." He'd been stark raving, a weapon looking for a target. There were really on three possibilities – Black was dead, Black had killed Cross and Shearing and gone on to kill more, or he'd just started killing whoever came to hand. Byer had known it and sent him anyway.

"These the Sterisyn lab reports on the greens and blues?" Byer tapped a significantly tall pile.

"Yeah, and you probably should read these case files too if you want the full picture."

"Bring them to me when you're done." Byer scooped up the pile of lab reports and left.

"He ordered two months' worth of greens and blues," Zev whispered to Artie. "You don't think he's considering …"

"Going Outcome himself? He's just crazy enough to do it. We'd better finish these files or he's going to be back in here ripping us a new one." Or worse. If Byer took down Outcome doctors and agents, who's to say he would stop there?


	24. Chapter 24

Chapter 24

Marta started up. The noise outside their door sounded like an army … an angry army with a fondness for words like "clear" and "cover me".

"Don't be frightened, Marta," Aaron was saying. He still had his arm on her shoulders. "Things are going to get better for you, I promise. Wait here." He kissed her and stood up, his eyes never leaving her face.

She nodded. What else could she do? The Robinsons had taken their guns, and although she was now stronger and faster, she couldn't fight like Aaron. She'd be dead if she tried, and worse, their baby would be dead too. And Aaron didn't look worried. With a relaxed, loose gait he went to the door leading back to the penthouse's great room.

His hand on the doorknob, he looked back over his shoulder at her and said, "I love you, Marta. Don't forget me."

What?

Opening the door, Aaron walked through. "Coming out," he shouted ahead. "I'm unarmed." And for the second time that day, she saw him ambushed from behind a door and a gun put to his head. He tried to close the door behind him, but two black clad men yanked him forward and he started fighting back, knocking down two men in less than a heartbeat. A gun went off. Aaron fell down to the floor. She told herself he would get up and kill them. She'd seen him escape from worse situations. It was only one bullet. Just one. He stayed down. A big man kicked him and he didn't fight back. Why wasn't he fighting back?

Two men rushed past Aaron's prone body, through the door and into the bedroom with Marta. Then she couldn't see what was happening to Aaron because the men had their hands on her and she was fighting them and everything was frantic and confusing. A gun went off again and she was screaming, "Aaron!" And they wouldn't let her go to him, they wouldn't let her go!

"Calm down, Marta," an almost familiar male voice said, but she was in no condition to analyze voices or listen to advice. She kept struggling and crying out for Aaron. She lashed out with her foot and down went the man on her right arm. She almost worked free from the man on her left when two more men grabbed her. One around her waist and the other grabbed the free arm. And then a big man holding a pistol at ready moved out of her line of sight, and she could see Aaron at last. She stopped struggling at the sight. He was lying face down, arms and legs splayed out in an awkward, painful looking contortion and there was a large spreading blood stain on his back. The most positive thing she could think was, "Dead men don't bleed." It takes a beating heart to pump blood out of a wound.

More men entered the bedroom. "Damn, she's strong," one of the men holding her said. "Watch out or she'll get you." One of the new men laughed, but it changed to an "oof" when he came close and she kneed him in the groin. The other men approached more cautiously. No matter how much she struggled, there were enough of them that soon she was immobilized.

A man with a Red Cross patch on the shoulder of his black jacket bent over Aaron, then the big men surrounded him again and all she could see was black uniforms, pistols and scowls on wooden soldier faces. It seemed like there were dozens, but there couldn't have been more than four all told. She couldn't see Aaron anymore. And now her arms and legs were pinned and her neck locked a vice grip. She couldn't even struggle.

It was too much. Suddenly she sagged, hanging from the hands holding her. "No, no," she moaned. She almost sat on the floor.

"Marta, I've been worried sick about you," the almost familiar voice said. She looked upward but tears blurred the face swimming before her eyes. The man kneeled down next to her. "Are you hurt? Did Cross hurt you? You've lost weight. Oh my God, sweetheart, you look horrible." Hands smoothed her hair. The man nodded at the soldiers holding her arms, and she was released. Her sag turned into a complete collapse.

Almost familiar arms caught her in a hug and she finally processed who belonged to the voice. Peter Boyd. Slinky Peter. Dinky Peter. Gone Peter. Peter who'd walked out her front door back in Maryland saying that their relationship just wasn't going to work out and that he hoped she had a good life. Peter who according to Dan Hillcott had been hired by Candent's behavior analysis division in Singapore two months later. Him. That Peter. Damn the murderous b*stard.

"You killed him," she sobbed. "You killed Aaron." She couldn't fight back anymore. What was the point?

"Don't worry about Cross, Marta. It's going to be okay. He can't hurt you anymore. Don't be afraid. He can't tell you anymore lies." He said more of the same. None of it made any sense and all she could do was try to see Aaron's body, but the man with the Red Cross patches and two others, all in black combat boots, hats, clothes and vests with little Candent logos, were turning Aaron over and doing things she couldn't see. Then Red Cross guy looked at Peter and shook his head.

"Let me help him," she begged. "Please."

"Shhh, shhh," Peter said. "He's gone. Don't think about him anymore."

Gone? Gone? She looked from Peter to Aaron. He couldn't be gone. Less than five minutes ago he'd been standing at the door saying he loved her. "No!" she wailed and beat on Peter, satisfyingly he staggered under the onslaught. "Murderer!" Then she noticed the cell phone at Peter's belt. She grabbed for it and started dialing one of the phone numbers that would blow the penthouse and send these murderers to hell.

"Hey, let's have none of that," Peter said and grabbed his phone back before she could finish dialing. "You don't need to call anyone. We're rescuing you, Marta. We're going to take you some place safe. Some place where you can go back to work. You'd like that wouldn't you?"

Too late she realized his eyes had been tracking someone coming up behind her. There was a prick in her arm and in a matter of seconds her body stopped obeying her. Wow, that was potent stuff, she thought, her brain already groggy and loose. She had a flash of worry about how the drugs might affect her baby and tried to analyze what they might be using, but she was too far gone.

Gone. Gone. Aaron was gone. She'd never see him again. He could still help her though. She had her memories of what he had said and done. He'd help her get through this. To make the right choices and be courageous when necessary. Then she remembered the last time she had sedated him in the lab and how he'd counted down from 100 in Russian so she tried to do the same, but she didn't even get out "cto" before the world went black.

"Did you have to shoot him?" Peter asked Goldberg, who had introduced himself at the airport an hour earlier as the capture project coordinator. "He was unarmed."

"Are you sure of that? It takes a lot to put these b*stards down. I'm not even sure he's out now. Did you actually read Cross's file?" Goldberg asked in return. "When I was DEA two years ago, I worked with one of these Outcome agents in the Caribbean, a big African American dude named Rob Riley. Riley boarded our target's boat and killed everyone on board in five minutes with his bare hands. And the b*stard was as mean as a snake - smart mean, if you understand me. Vicious just because he liked making the rest of us freak. I never trusted him. My men are my responsibility and I don't believe in taking chances. And just for the record," he rubbed his chin and glanced at the men working on Cross, "I think this is a really bad idea - bringing Cross in alive. Ziang will probably fire me, but these new Outcome agents Candent wants to put in the field are just as likely to kill us as them. Dead from friendly fire is still dead."

The medic straightened from Cross's body. "How bad is he?" Peter asked, ignoring Goldberg. He was p*ssed. When he'd left Frisco he hadn't been one hundred percent sure Cross would be here, but if he was, the combat experts were supposed to fake his death and not actually kill him.

He'd only agreed to help Candent capture and control Marta so that he could work with the last surviving Outcome agent, studying the effects of chemical enhancement on the psyche, at least that's the way it had started, now with Marta here and absolutely going berserk over Cross's capture, he was starting to feel … was that actually jealous? J*sus, Cross was a monster. Marta should know better than to get involved with a test subject.

That Cross started life FAS-challenged made Peter positively salivate. If Goldberg had killed Cross, he'd go all the way up to Ziang, the Vice-President in charge of Singapore operations and Peter's immediate superior and b*tch about the security personnel that had been assigned to his very important project.

Three hours ago he'd been having a nice dinner in San Francisco after investigating the confirmed Aaron Cross sighting there from two weeks ago, but after Marta had been spotted in Reno, he'd had to hop on a cross city helicopter flight followed by a private jet flit. He'd taken Cross's call in the air high above the Sierras. He didn't need that kind of aggravation if it was just going to end in bullets and brutality. Goldberg had absolutely no finesse.

"This man is incredibly strong," the medic said. "I stitched up his entrance and exit wounds and he's already stopped bleeding. We should start an IV drip, but I think he'll survive the flight back to Singapore just fine." He glanced over his shoulder at the limp man being loading onto a gurney, keeping an eye on his new charge. "You sure he's not a vampire? Never seen anyone recover that fast."

Peter gave the medic a hard look and was about to remind him of the confidentiality agreement he'd signed but remembered just in time the medic was only joking. He had no idea what Cross actually was. "Not a vampire. No sparklies," Peter said. "He's a werewolf." The medic smirked. Peter was about to turn back to Marta but stopped. He owed the medic a thank you. "Thanks for the acting bit. I need to get Doctor Shearing away from Cross's influence. It'll be easier if she thinks he's dead."

The medic shrugged. "No prob, man. I should check her over too." He took Marta's pulse, pupil reaction and breathing. "Looks good. She'll be out for a few." He called down to their support van for a second gurney.

He got out a syringe and was about to add painkiller to Cross's IV when Peter told him, "Don't bother. This guy doesn't feel pain."

Medic raised an eyebrow. "You sure he's not a vampire?" he asked but he put it away and got Cross ready to travel.

Goldberg, who had been searching through Cross's pockets while the medic worked on Marta, tossed a set of bloody keys to one of his men. "Nolan, go see if you can find the car that goes with these. It's going to be something old, at least ten years, probably more. Drive it out to the airport." He went into the details of finding their cargo jet among the maze of storage sheds at Reno-Tahoe International. Nolan left for the parking lot, stopping only at the medic's supply chest to snag a cloth to wipe Cross's blood off the keys. He tossed the cloth on for his boss to wipe his hands and held the door for Cross's gurney on its way to the elevator.

"You riding back with us?" Goldberg asked Peter, "or you got more to do here?"

"No, I'm good. Let's get back to Singapore."


	25. Chapter 25

Chapter 25

His bed vibrated. His very hard, very cold bed. And his side ached like he'd been kicked by a mule. Not that he'd ever been kicked by a mule, but it was an appealing description of the heavy, deep pain in his right side that throbbed with every breath.

He recognized the pain. He'd been shot, more than once if he remembered correctly. And the vibration was paired with a whine and ker-pop that after some thought he identified as a Boeing 747 with fuel line issues.

He wasn't alone, wherever he was. There were at least two other people in an enclosed space with him, probably three based on the rhythm of their breathing. Their voices echoed tinnily, like maybe he was in the plane's cargo hold. "Hey, Cross," a deep male rumble said, and something prodded him in a buttock. It felt like a steel-toed boot, but he didn't open his eyes to find out. He was tired. He was supposed to be dead. He wanted to be dead. "Got a proposition for ya."

"He's still out," a second voice said, higher, a bit on the too smooth side, like a man who kept his voice under control as part of his professional bag of tricks. "You have another epi pen, medic?"

"Hey, man, not a great idea. He could start bleeding again," a young male protested.

"Naw, don't bother. He's awake," voice one said. "Hey, Cross, better open your baby blues or we're all going to be dead."

"Why should I care?" Aaron rasped without moving. He felt it was a valid question. He'd sent Marta away and now he wanted to be dead. Apparently, he hadn't quite made it there yet.

"You care because Marta Shearing is on this plane too," voice two told him. "Get up and save her."

Voice two must have had a withholding mother, Aaron decided. He was a whiney pr*ck. Rolling onto his pain free left side, preparatory to rising, he discovered that he had been lying on a thick pallet of cargo pads piled on a plane's bare metal deck. Moving hurt but his body was already rearranging his synapses to damp the pain down to bearable levels. Soon he'd forget he'd been wounded at all. Soon, but not yet. Right now it hurt like h*ll. "Prove it," he said. "I want to see her."

"Whoa, whoa. Hold it there," the third voice, the young male, murmured. Aaron recognized the soft manner. This was a medical professional. His head turned slowly toward the voice. Yep, a young man with a pair of red cross logos on his shoulders. "You've been shot." Well, duh. Obviously a medical professional who needed some in-service on bedside manner. "You'll open up the wounds if you stand up."

"Wrap me tighter," Aaron said. "Helps. Been shot before. Trust me." The medic looked at a well-groomed, vaguely familiar dark haired man for direction. Ah, Marta's ex. Peter Boyd. He'd seen his picture among Marta's papers. The animal guy. And, from his voice, the Boyd he'd called to arrange Marta's future. Mystery solved.

And apparently Boyd was now the man now in charge of Aaron's life. Boyd nodded his approval of the re-bandaging. While the medic got out his supplies, Boyd gestured at the third man - a grey-haired muscular military type with a nodding acquaintance with sixty - and said, "Goldberg here claims you can fix this plane. We're over the Bering Sea and the pilot says one of our engines is out and another is thinking about it."

"Help me stand up," Aaron told the medic. "You'll get a tighter wrap." Once on his feet, he weaved a little but spread his stance and stabilized. The medic started wrapping a broad elastic bandage over the existing bandaging and Aaron grunted with pain. Boyd and Goldberg practically tapped their feet with impatience. Aaron felt for the plane's acceleration, oriented himself port and starboard and said, "Boeing 747, outfitted for cargo. Sounds like it's about half empty. Port fuel line feed has a problem, probably about there," he pointed at the indicated spot with his left hand.

Boyd nodded thoughtfully. Goldberg said, "That agrees with what the pilot said. So, how do we fix it?"

The medic finished wrapping and started fastening off. He'd gotten the bandage tight enough to make breathing a challenge. Perfect. "First I get to see Marta."

"She's sedated. Freaked when you were shot and knocked down two of my men so we had to calm her down before she hurt herself," Goldberg told him.

He gave Goldberg a cold look. "I want to see her." If they'd hurt her, they'd die, but there was no reason to threaten them. He was as good as dead himself and he didn't want to create problems for Marta's new future at Candent when he was gone.

Boyd looked at his watch. "If we don't get moving along here, we're not going to see anybody but God. Marta can wait. " He was afraid and thought he was in charge. A bad combination.

"Your f*cking pilot's panicking," Aaron snapped. What had Marta ever seen in this man? "We'll be fine until he has to adjust altitude."

"Fine," Goldberg said. "Five minutes. Let's go." Boyd sputtered but Goldberg stalked out and rather than be left behind he followed.

Marta had better accommodations than Aaron's, a small forward cabin, insulated from most of the jet noise and equipped with a narrow bed, a cot really, a chair and a desk, probably for the relief pilot to use on long haul trips. Not that she could appreciate it. As Goldberg had said, she was out cold.

Aaron sat on the edge of the bed, and pushed a curl back from Marta's forehead. He had five more minutes with her, five minutes to create a memory to carry with him. Whether he lived or died, he would probably never see her again. Her skin felt cool so he pulled a blanket from the foot of the cot and wrapped it around her, bending over as he did so to take a last deep breath. Her sweet female scent still had that slight difference that he'd noticed in the penthouse. He closed his eyes. His pain had eased down to nothing.

They hadn't sent a friendly welcome-back-to-Candent representative to pick up Marta at the penthouse, they'd sent a full capture force. They'd expected violence, resistance. They'd expected him. He'd said he'd be there. When he'd seen ten soldiers carrying automatic weapons, his reflexes had kicked in and he'd fought back. After that it had all gone to hell.

It was his fault Marta lay here drugged down. He should have left as soon as he'd finished the call to Boyd. He'd made yet another bad decision.

Boyd and Goldberg stood watching. Boyd cleared his throat. "Got a proposition for you, Cross." Aaron didn't look at him. He'd rather watch Marta. "My boss wants you dead. Your files make you sound more American than Yankee Doodle so our Chinese customers would rather grow their own Outcome agents. Not to mention your little viraling out issue." Aaron looked a question. "You got no kryptonite, man, no weakness. You don't need chems and you don't need support. They think there's no way to control you." He snickered. "I, on the other hand, know better. I've got your Lois Lane, I've got Marta."

Aaron kept his mouth shut. Boyd would get to his point sooner or later.

"You're not going to make Ziang happy," Goldberg said.

"Don't worry," Boyd told him. "They won't let Cross live long. Ziang says I can keep him for my behavioral research. Outcome and LARX both have some kinks. He's willing to indulge me … to a point. That point being where Cross here steps over the line."

He turned to Aaron. "But you'll be a good boy for Marta's sake, won't you, Cross? It'll be simple. She thinks you're dead. You stay dead. If you even think about contacting her, she'll lose her rock star status and you'll be f*cked."

Aaron stood up. "And if you hurt her, so will you." He took a step in Boyd's direction. Boyd scampered back like a rat, but it had been a hollow threat, something to confirm what he'd already suspected - that Boyd was a physical coward. With a pair of bullet wounds, Aaron barely had strength to walk without staggering.

Goldberg stepped between them. "Calm down, Cross. Don't make me shoot you again."

From behind Goldberg, Boyd said, "Don't threaten me, Cross. I'm holding all the cards here."

"And here I thought you wanted me to fix your plane." Aaron found that he really enjoyed snarling at Boyd. This man used to f*ck Marta.

Boyd seemed to realize that he was hiding like a little girl. He stepped forward, away from Goldberg. "You're bluffing. You wouldn't let Marta die. Don't be a fool."

"We'd better get on that. Right now," Goldberg said.

Aaron dragged his eyes away from Boyd to look at Goldberg's square, honest face. "I'll need to talk to the pilot and I'll probably need someone to crawl around for me and make repairs.'"

"Done and done. Let's go." Goldberg started toward the front of the plane. Boyd moved out of his way, looking annoyed which seemed to be a perpetual condition for him.

With a last look at Marta, Aaron followed Goldberg.


	26. Chapter 26

Chapter 26

Five weeks later, a hundred kilometers outside Kunming, Yunan Province, Southwest China.

"Cross blew up your house, Marta. Doesn't that bother you? I remember all the big plans you had. How you loved that spiral staircase. That freakshow was obsessed with you. He was Googling information about your private life and breaking into your Sterisyn files for at least a year and a half before he invaded your house." Peter sat across from Marta, probably in the only leather chair on the whole Kunming Candent business campus, certainly the only one in the behavioral sciences building. He looked relaxed, sure of himself. But he wasn't. He was jealous, at least that's how she interpreted his mix of anger stink and muscle tension. Peter was jealous of Aaron, he was jealous of a dead man.

He leaned forward. "The Outcome agents were very persuasive, Marta. You remember how they were in the lab. You had to be on your guard all the time. Cross came to your house and shot everything up and made you go on the run with him. You were so scared you never stopped to find out the truth. They were after him, not you! You could have left him at any time and been safe."

Over the last month Marta had gotten very good at analyzing human emotions with her nose and eyes. It helped her resist Peter's constant attempts to erode her feelings for Aaron Cross. The first few days after she'd arrived here, when she'd still been under lockdown, the prick had even thought he could climb back into her bed, until she'd stabbed him with the disposable chopsticks she'd cadged from her dinner tray. Unfortunately, the chopsticks broke and she'd barely drawn blood.

After that she'd been allowed only sporks and paper dinnerware until she'd gone on a two day hunger strike and Ziang, Peter's Candent supervisor, came with him to her cell. She'd complained about Peter's badgering, her prisoner status, and most importantly Aaron's murder. "No way to welcome back a loyal employee," she'd told Ziang. Peter had just stood in the background, arms folded in front of him, his expression completely neutral but his heartbeat and breathing elevated. He was angry, she figured.

"Agent Five wasn't murdered, Doctor Shearing. My people were defending themselves." Ziang showed her a file on a tablet PC signed with Peter's self-important flourish. "Doctor Boyd feels you are a danger to yourself and others right now. If you drop your vendetta about Agent Five, perhaps we can work something out."

She'd given him her best cold stare, well-practiced over the years on many a test subject.

"He called us you know, Agent Five. Told us where to find you both. Security Chief Goldberg thinks he was going to surrender himself but panicked."

"I don't believe you." Aaron never panicked. He wasn't afraid of anything.

Ziang gestured at Peter who fished out his smartphone, fiddled with it a moment and played a recording.

"Boyd here," it started. She could hear the faint whine of a jet engine in the background.

"Jed Robinson says you're Candent," Aaron's familiar voice came on next. She suddenly had to sit down on the built-in shelf that held her sleeping pallet.

"Aaron Cross! What can I do for you?" Peter's voice in his professionally friendly mode.

"Marta Shearing is waiting for you at the Gilded Palace Casino penthouse. She needs asylum from …" Peter abruptly ended the playback.

Aaron had arranged this. He'd known that Candent agents were on their way to the penthouse and stayed with her anyway. She'd been so involved with herself and the pregnancy test she hadn't noticed what he needed and then she asked him that stupid question about June Monroe and he'd stayed to tell her. Not trusting herself to look at anything but the floor she said in a choked voice, "Show me where to sign." After they left, she'd cried until two of the black clad guards came and escorted her to the tiny, utilitarian apartment she lived in now. She hadn't cried since.

Things improved. At least she now had the run of Candent's facilities here, a one hectare business campus complete with cafeteria, laundry and sleeping quarters. In theory she could leave at any time. In reality guards followed her whenever she left her apartment. Not that she had anywhere to go in the heart of China, thousands of miles from the coast, with no local language skills and no cash of any kind. On the bright side, Peter Boyd's badgering had been curtailed but not eliminated. She still had to endure these "counseling" sessions at his whim. At least he no longer assumed he could f*ck her.

He did, however, offer her a vodka tonic at every session and even though she always left it untouched, another one was offered again at the next session. Somehow she didn't think that was good psychiatric practice, since alcohol had once been her weakness and Peter knew it, having driven her home and poured her into bed on more than one occasion. She remembered Aaron in Hong Kong when she'd begged him to "just kill me now" and how patient he'd been. So patient, her hand stole to her belly and she smiled. Maybe if the baby was a girl, she'd call her Patience. Definitely Aaron if it was a boy.

Ziang also gave her 24/7 lab and database access. Except for Aaron Cross and Outcome Five files. When she tried to find out what they'd done with his body or even find his picture to print out she'd been completely and utterly blocked. All the other agent histories in the database were available to her, even some for another program called LARX, but not his. Not Aaron's. And sometimes it left gaping, awkward holes in her Outcome data analyses. It was almost like a vendetta and she suspected Peter's hand in it. He couldn't seem to mention Aaron without sneering.

She'd tried to persuade her lab assistants, Chang and Lee, to look Aaron up for her. First they'd pretended not to understand. Then after they'd been forced to reveal that they spoke and read perfectly good English, they'd just ignored her demands.

She was making progress on the baby tests. It was too early for ultrasound, but all the DNA testing came back within normal ranges, at least Outcome normal. No obvious abnormalities, and her own body had settled into both motherhood and enhancement comfortably. She slept more than Aaron had, usually two hours a night, but a lot less than she had before. And she never, ever missed a meal. Her appetite was legendary. The baby seemed to be growing at maybe 105 to 110 percent of normal. Her waist had already started to thicken a little and her breasts enlarge. Fortunately she'd arrived with almost no suitable clothes, since the hooker hand-me-downs from the Ranch weren't really suitable lab wear. So she'd been able to acquire new things that were loose enough to hide at least some of the changes. She wore the wedding ring from the Rainbow Seas all the time now. She'd caught Peter staring at it but he hadn't questioned her about it … yet.

It was hard to do the baby testing in secret and keep up with Candent's ambitious program of selecting and inoculating twenty new Outcome participants. Ziang wanted to hop over the blue and green chem administration level and go straight to viraling out. She had argued they'd end up killing half the participants, not the mention the mental instability issues and personnel management. Ziang had nodded and looked thoughtful, but his follow-up questions had been about how to select the most viable participant candidates, not about alternative programs and schedules.

"Boyd's trying to confuse you," she imagined Aaron advising her. "Hold on to who you are."

"I burned the house down, Peter, because it reminded me of you. Hollow and empty. A stupid investment I should never have made." She did her best to insult Peter every time they met for one of these psycho sessions, which seemed to be when he felt like tormenting her. He'd come into the lab where she did the Outcome candidate evaluations, he'd gesture toward the exit and she'd be expected to drop whatever she was doing and ride with him on one of the little golf carts all the way across the campus to this, the behavioral sciences building. Interestingly, although Marta's guard did not ride with them, he always reappeared after she left Boyd's office. Marta had a guard wherever she went these days.

"I'm glad you're admitting that now," Peter said. "Last time we met, you said a CIA team tried to kill you."

Marta smiled. She and Peter had danced this dance for weeks and he must know what she'd say. "They did. Then we blew up the house." She imagined Aaron snickering. God, she missed him. The things that had upset her - the drug dealing, the violence, the stealing - she saw now as a man determined to survive at any cost. Just like she was determined now.

She decided to throw Peter a bone. Aaron wouldn't have liked it, but she'd noticed early on that a session with Peter went until he had some new piece of information about Aaron.

"Aaron only saved me because he thought I might have Outcome chems at home. He was desperate or he would have realized I couldn't get them through lab security. He'd been to the red lab about a dozen times. He knew how tight it was."

For once Peter didn't comment, just waited like a psychiatrist was supposed to. She looked down at her hands. She imagined Aaron hugging her and telling her that it was alright. That she needed to take care of herself and their baby first. "I didn't know the Outcome agents were being killed too until he told me. I don't know how he knew. He told me about a drone trying to kill him and Participant Three in Alaska, but the others … I don't know." That was the new piece of information. She looked back up at Peter. "That's all you're going to get out of me. I'm not very touchy-feely today." She stood up and headed for the door.

It was the first time she'd left on her own, without waiting for Peter's dismissal, but he didn't move to stop her. "Until next time, Marta," he murmured, busily tapping on his tablet computer.

Out in the corridor by herself she leaned against the wall for a moment, emptied. Waiting for her guard to show up, if she was honest with herself.

A flock of children ran screaming and laughing past her, on their way to the animal pens from the looks of it. She'd seen them before. They always charmed a smile out of her. One of the younger girls, a little Caucasian blonde and blue eyed doll, stopped and gaped at Marta. Grabbing a boy by the arm, she said something in Cantonese. Marta had picked up quite a bit of Mandarin in the past few weeks, but Cantonese with its myriad tonals and inflections still escaped her. It flowed out of this child's mouth like a song.

The kids came up to Marta and bowed. The little blonde said in perfect American English, "Please, ma'am, are you Marta Shearing?" With the "ma'am" she sounded almost Southern.

The little girl's large blue eyes riveted Marta. They reminded her so much of Aaron's. The same serious stare, the same calm alertness. She could imagine her baby growing up with those eyes. "Yes, I am." She stuck out a hand and said like she would have to an adult, "You have the advantage of me, Miss …?"

The little girl seemed confused until the boy, a slender Chinese a few years older, said, "She wants to know your name, Kathy." His American English was also perfect.

Kathy put her hand in Marta's, shook it and bowed again. "I'm Kathy X-2," she said.

"Kathy Eggs-Du?" Marta asked, confused.

"No, X-2, letter X, number 2." She drew herself up. "I'm the second model of the Kathy series. Kathy X-1 died at three months. I'm five years old and I'm expected to live until I'm twelve." She smiled. "I'm going to do better than that. I'm going to live until I'm fifteen, at least." She was big for a five year old. Very big.

While Marta was trying to recover from this matter of fact explanation, the boy said, "I'm just Alan. No model. Teacher says I'm five too." You could hear the capital letters he put on the name "Teacher."

Some of the children down the hall were calling and gesturing for the kids to hurry up and join them. "Betsy has a new litter of puppies!" a tall brown skinned boy called. Betsy, a black lab breeding bitch that spent most of its time in a kennel, was part of Peter's animal behavior studies. Marta was glad at least one Candent prisoner had plenty of love and companionship.

Kathy and Alan bowed their apologies and took off. Despite their Western names, they had all the mannerisms and attitudes of the traditional Chinese.

"Something you should look into," she imagined Aaron telling her. "A mystery." Model 2 of the Kathy series. That sounded like a breeding experiment … or cloning. She had a particular interest in cloning. She stared after the kids, now visible through the windows at the animal pens.

As if it wasn't enough to work on Candent's Outcome program revision, track her baby's health, fend off Peter Boyd's endless meetings and try to decide whether to escape or divulge her pregnancy, a decision she had to make in the next week or two before she started showing.

"I will," she murmured. "We will." Not until the children had been chased away by Peter's lab staff and were completely out of sight did it occur to her to wonder how Kathy X-2 had known her name.

A few yards down the hall one of the black clad campus guards stood patiently ready to follow her back to the lab or wherever else she decided to go. Time to get moving.


	27. Chapter 27

Chapter 27

Marta couldn't believe she'd forgotten. How could she have forgotten the recordings she and Aaron made a few months ago on the Stinky Rose?

Len Goldberg, the b*stard who'd murdered Aaron, had issued her a Microsoft Surface for data analysis and web research. Apparently in his role as head of campus security, Goldberg had final say on IT equipment distribution and had, over Peter's strong objections, given her what she'd requested. If Goldberg hadn't killed Aaron, Marta would almost like Goldberg just because Peter didn't.

Not long after she'd been released from her cell, Goldberg had apologized to her for killing Aaron, but he'd been lying. His pupils had moved the wrong way. Either he wasn't sorry at all or he hadn't killed him. And she knew that he had. She'd seen him do it. Cold-hearted b*stard. Liar.

She had the Surface set up on her table with a keyboard and had logged into the Amazon Cloud account Aaron had set up. There were three mp3 files in the account - CrossLog, ShearingLog and ForMarta, all recorded not long after they'd escaped Manila. The Log files were both about three hours, the ForMarta file was ten minutes.

Aaron had left her something. Goldberg would undoubtedly know about these files tomorrow morning when the ISP techs gave him the dump log for the previous 24 hours, but not right now, not for the ten minutes it would take her to listen.

"If you're listening to this, Marta, I'm dead." Aaron's voice, the ghost of the man, made her heart ache. "If I had time, I told you about this file. If I didn't, well, I'll just hope you'll eventually check our Cloud storage." The disembodied voice sighed. She could hear the waves slapping the Rose's hull, the calling of sea birds and an occasional voice murmuring something in Tagalog. She even recognized her own voice asking for another bottle of wine. "Marta, you can't give up. I don't know how or why I've died, but don't let it get to you. I was just one man, mostly a soldier. You're just about the smartest person I've ever known. You don't back down. You're loyal. You're loving. And you're a fighter. Remember what I've taught you. Stay small. Stay away from airports …"

There was a knock at Marta's door, the sound so abruptly breaking into Marta's concentration that she literally jumped an inch up from her chair. Quickly, she paused the recording, pushed the Surface's instant off button and flipped the tablet down.

At the door she stopped to tie up her bathrobe. Len Goldberg's blocky face greeted her through the open crack. "Doctor Shearing," he said, "Doctor Boyd has asked me to escort you to his office."

"Now? It's after midnight," Marta asked, looking past Goldberg. He nearly always brought a guard or two with him. Tonight he was alone. He looked like he'd dressed in a hurry. His shirt was wrinkled and he wore loafers instead of his usual heavy duty boots.

Pushing the door open, he walked into the room. She glanced at the table where the Surface snuggled in her usual clutter of files, protein bar wrappers and dead houseplants. Her apartment was tiny. Only a step or two separated the table from the door. He looked around the room then turned back to her. "Yes, ma'am." He seemed uncomfortable. "I believe someone arrived from overseas. Probably jet lagged all to h*ll."

"Okay, Mr. Goldberg. But I need to get dressed."

"Yes, ma'am. Take your time."

Should she try to get him to wait in the hall? Should she snatch up the Surface and take it with her into the bedroom? Suspicious behavior. He was going to know all about this in the morning. Let him listen to Aaron's recording if he wanted to. She went into the bedroom.

Len Goldberg watched Doctor Shearing stalk away. He'd come to accept that she would never forgive him for shooting Aaron Cross, but he'd grown to like and respect the hard-as-nails woman that Cross loved so much. She reminded him of his wife, sweet Rebekah, although Rebekah would have snorted and said something like, "Mossad agents are not sweet, Lenny." Rebekah, long dead in the Middle East wars that never seemed to end and her grave outside Jerusalem too impossibly far away to visit more than once or twice a decade. Eventually he'd retire, move to Israel, join a kibbutz and grow cabbages and olive trees, but not this week. This week he was still Peter Boyd's lap dog. Woof, woof.

Thing was, he was a paid lap dog, not a true believer. He still had a brain to think with and 20/20 vision. Ziang really should be spending more time here on site. Boyd was a waste of time as the Outcome project supervisor. (Outcome had been renamed Proof Positive, but no one used that.) The man had no administrative skills, and thought egos were Eggos and ate them for breakfast. With syrup and a lot of snarky putdowns, which he probably thought was good psychotherapy.

And he spent a lot of time harassing Aaron Cross in the name of research. It looked more like torture. Cross endured so he could be around Shearing. It was a trade-off that Goldberg did not envy at all.

Boyd had saddled Cross with the half-dozen feral Outcome super-kids that had started pilfering the cafeteria food stores when the campus reopened a few days before Cross and Shearing arrived. The kids had been abandoned here when the CIA had gone all Wild West on Candent and Sterisyn's ass and told them to shut down the Outcome programs. To be fair no one but Cross could have reined the kids in. Even Kathy, the littlest of them, decked his security guards when they wandered into martial arts practice, which they sometimes did. It was good for the men's egos to have children lay them out. It was certainly humbling. Goldberg had been thrown himself a few times.

Aaron Cross had sat across from Goldberg this morning drinking coffee in his office, the only room on campus that he absolutely knew wasn't under surveillance and thus was free from Boyd's security review. Cross had refused to apologize for his kids screwing up the CCTV system in the computer sciences building. Again. Or explain how they'd gotten from the residence hall to the IT building without tripping any other cameras. Goldberg had given up tailing him long ago. The man was a ghost. He'd slipped Goldberg's best man without breaking a sweat. Either Cross would honor his no-contact agreement with Shearing or he wouldn't. Besides Goldberg owed him.

Boyd had ordered the old coal burning centralized physical plant burnt down when the other campus buildings were retrofitted with localized electric heat. The fire had unexpectedly spread down an unmapped steam tunnel and he'd had two men sucked into the resulting collapse. Cross had gone down after them. Got them out too. After that Goldberg's reports on Cross's movement became, well, you could stay they were "Crossed" out.

The kids were all part of Boyd's "behavioral research" on the Outcome psyche as personified by Aaron Cross. Boyd had probably thought Cross would kill them all. That's what Goldberg himself had assumed he would do. He hadn't. For an assassin, the man had the patience of a saint. Goldberg wished it had been Cross and not Riley that had been assigned to his DEA operation.

"I was told to train the kids. That's what I'm doing. No permanent damage, right?"

"No, of course not, but my IT people are b*tching someone is re-setting monitors and terminals. Freaks 'em. You know how IT is. Everything has to add up."

"Yeah, yeah. I know. Marta's like that too." Cross put down his coffee cup. "The kids asked me to look up their parents. So we were in there doing a little research. How much do you know about the kids?"

Goldberg shook his head. "Not much. Cooks came in b*tching about missing food, my second, Shi Lee, told me about how the kids that had been left here, and I pushed the whole thing onto Boyd. Wasn't going to hunt down and kill babies, for God's sakes."

Cross looked relieved. "Well, it's pretty ugly."

Goldberg raised his eyebrows.

Cross said two words, well technically one word and a contraction. "They're clones." He looked down into the putrid depths of the coffee mug - it was really hard to get decent coffee here in China - and said, "Kathy's my clone. They did some sex switching and growth acceleration stuff too and …"

Goldberg held up a hand. "Wait a minute," he said, "Need some whiskey for my coffee." Reaching down, he'd pulled a bottle of Jim Beam from his file drawer and poured a generous dollop into his half empty cup. "Okay, I'm ready. Turn my stomach."

Cross had been right. It was as ugly as a five dollar whore. And now Goldberg was thinking about resigning and shipping out.

Idly he flipped open Shearing's little Surface Pro and started it up. He'd always been a shameless snoop. It went with being in the security field. He entered Shearing's password KennyKitsom, her keystrokes snagged from some piece of surveillance video, he'd forgotten which, and checked her last activity. She'd been listening to an mp3 file. A quick tap and his suspicions were confirmed. Aaron Cross's American West Coast accent whispered out of the speakers. On a whim he logged into his security database and downloaded a little present for Shearing, the hundred or so pictures of Cross he had on file, all of them from his days as Outcome Agent Five, cruising the world and saving America from the CIA's version of evil.

If Boyd found out, he'd hang him out for the security breach. Let him. He was as good as gone anyway.

"What are you doing?" Shearing had crept up on him, or maybe he'd just been too focused. He was getting old. When she took a swing at him, a clumsy quasi-Tai Chi move, he easily diverted her into a half nelson and a neck lock. She was heavier in his arms than he'd expected.

Goldberg had three sisters who had made it their personal mission to re-populate the Israeli nation. He had twenty-seven assorted nieces and nephews as well as grand- and even double grand- versions of the same. Whenever he visited family he was surrounded by pregnant women, children and babes in arms.

He'd been watching Marta Shearing every day for weeks and there was something about her - the way she walked, the way she moved, something that reminded him of his sisters and their fast breeding brood. Could she be … ? Nah, that was a pretty far out idea.

"You should be nice to me, Marta," he said in her ear. "I'm a good person. I do nice things."

"If you think I'm going to …" Shearing said and tried to twist out of his grasp. God, she was strong. If she had proper training, she could probably beat most of his men to a pulp.

He suddenly realized what she'd thought. She'd thought he wanted to f*ck her. Cross would kill him in five minutes. "No, that's not what I meant. Look, look at your computer." He'd set Cross's pictures to run in a slide show.

She gave a strangled cry. Cautiously he let her go. She looked down at the pictures and back up to him. "Why?"

"Like I said, I'm a good person." He really wished he could tell her that Cross was alive and less than a mile away, that the guards that followed her everywhere were both to keep her from running away and to make sure that she and Cross didn't cross paths. He thought this whole thing with Boyd manipulating the two of them was a power-mad trip down insanity lane. Eventually someone would slip up and Boyd would have an excuse to go completely Guantanamo Bay on them.

He wanted to ask her if she was pregnant. He wondered if Cross knew. He wondered if Cross was the father. The timing seemed possible, but neither Cross nor Boyd had shared much of his history. And Shearing usually made a point of ignoring him. Until recently he'd always had a bodyguard when he interacted with her. Just to discourage her from trying anything.

Shearing grabbed Len's hand. "Can you tell me what they did with his body? Please don't lie. I can tell when you lie."

Oh crap. "Well, uh, he's here on campus, ma'am. I can't tell you just where, sorry."

She searched his eyes. Nodded to herself. "Let's get on to this meeting. Do you know who it is?"

"No, ma'am. No, I don't. It's someone from overseas. I think he said his name was Zev. If I had to guess, I'd say from Boyd's attitude it's someone from the Candent corporate, but I could be wrong."


	28. Chapter 28

Chapter 28

Boyd's office in the behavioral science building was all the way across campus from the residence halls and Goldberg hadn't brought one of the ubiquitous golf carts for transportation. They were probably all charging. So Marta and Goldberg walked across the dark campus, Goldberg carrying a huge flashlight, Marta trusting her Outlook sensitive eyes. Occasionally light from a lab washed across the path that wandered like a lover's lane through flowering trees, bushes and tulips.

Now why had she thought about lovers and lanes, Marta wondered. At the moment love seemed far away and long ago.

A bush with pale bell flowers hanging in the moonlight rustled and waved a few feet off the ground, floating a spicy scent toward them. Somehow the scent reminded her of Aaron.

They were being followed and Goldberg knew it. She saw his eyes flicker in the direction of the rustlings. He didn't seem worried. Perhaps it was some of his men.

That had been sweet of Goldberg, the pictures, maybe he wasn't a total b*stard. Irrationally she trusted him. Aaron's killer and she trusted him. She had to trust someone. She had to start making plans for the baby. She couldn't do it all herself.

Marta said, "I ran into a little girl a few days ago, Kathy X-2. I can't find anything in the database about her." Marta had checked the Candent database for Kathy X-2 and come up empty-handed. But Goldberg obviously had access to a lot more than she did.

Goldberg's eyes flickered toward her. "She's an Outcome clone, ma'am. They made some from the original participants. I don't really know a lot about the project."

An Outcome clone and she had Aaron's eyes. There was nothing, NOTHING about cloning as part of the Outcome project in the Sterisyn Morlanta data she'd been using. Her heart beat faster but she fought for calm. Aaron's eyes. "Thanks, Len." They walked a little further, the trees rustling slightly. "Who's following us? Do you know?"

"If I had to guess, I'd say it's Kathy and some of her friends. They're quite a wild little bunch. Out at all hours. Apparently, they don't need much sleep."

"But Teacher rides herd on them, doesn't he? Is he out there too?"

Goldberg stopped walking. It seemed to Marta that the shadows drifted closer, as if they wanted to listen. "What do you know about their teacher?" he asked sharply. His attitude had taken a U-turn.

"Nothing, nothing at all. Alan and Kathy just mentioned him and I was wondering …" Goldberg couldn't see her face in the dark, thank God. The question about Teacher had really set him off. Eventually he started walking again. "Don't ask around about Teacher, ma'am. It'll get you nothing but heartache." Goldberg's voice had softened. "Please, Marta. Trust me. Peter Boyd will crucify you."

"Is Teacher one of Boyd's lieutenants?" Marta asked.

Goldberg played his flashlight in Marta's face, momentarily blinding her. She flinched away and covered her eyes. The shadows whispered. "Sorry. No, he's not under Boyd's thumb. He's a good man in a bad situation. I just meant that he's on Boyd's sh*t list too. If Boyd hears you've been seen with him, there'll be hell to pay." He wanted to add something, she could tell, but changed his mind and shook his head. "Just trust me, ma'am."

They were close to the corporate office building. Marta stopped again and Goldberg stopped with her. "Can you get me more information about the kids, the Outcome clones then? There's nothing in my data files. Peter keeps asking me to work miracles with this Outcome program and I don't have complete data."

Goldberg was watching something over her shoulder. She turned to see what he was looking at, but caught only a flicker of black against black. "Yes, ma'am, I'll do what I can." Goldberg said behind her. "If I can." She had the impression he'd received an order and was obeying. "You eat breakfast about seven every day. I'll join you." He looked at the building. "Now we'd better be good little Candent drones and talk to this guy from corporate."


	29. Chapter 29

Chapter 29

Zev had slept on the plane. Quite well, actually, since Candent unlike the CIA had popped for a business class ticket and he'd been able to lie down. Thus Zev's body clock still ticked away on American Eastern Daylight Savings Time instead of China Whatever Time and for him, the meeting with Boyd's security chief and his mystery woman behind door number one was shortly after lunch instead of shortly after midnight.

Boyd continued to sulk, sitting in his fine leather chair, ticking it back and forth like a metronome while they waited. If Zev didn't know better, he'd say Boyd resented the hell out of him. Actually, he didn't know any better. Maybe Boyd did resent him for some mysterious reason.

Or maybe he was worried about a secret that was about to be exposed. Perhaps it was the mystery woman, whoever she was, or maybe Candent was breeding even more supery super soldiers for the Chinese. Like the CIA and Sterisyn, Candent was just chock full of secrets, very few of which could stand the light of day. Or tonight, the moonlight of midnight. Wow, that was confused. Maybe he was more jet-lagged than he thought.

Zev wondered if he would live long enough to be old. He knew more government secrets than the American president and had way fewer bodyguards. At least he was already bald so he kinda looked old, or as his mother told her friends, distinguished. And at least Artie, who was still back in the District and still on Byer's leash, probably would go first, for whatever small comfort that was. If Byer didn't kill Artie when he discovered Zev's transfer, he might use him for a live-target punching bag, great for developing his newly Outcome enhanced muscles.

Byer had called their morning boxing sessions exercise. Zev called them abuse. He didn't want that job anymore. Let Artie practice his foot work.

They'd both found out about the job opening while doing the Outcome and Aaron Cross research. Neither one of them had told Byer. Go figure. At least they'd been united in that. He had felt badly about leaving Artie behind, no mistake. He'd been a good buddy. But there'd been only one opening in the Candent Proof Positive Program and Zev filled out a pretty mean application if he did say so himself. That and the fact that Artie needed to cut a few pounds had put Zev over the top. He'd received his flying orders early yesterday (by his own reckoning) in the middle of his third consecutive twelve-hour shift.

Fortunately Zev had been carrying his passport everywhere for two weeks, just in case. He'd grabbed the overnight kit he kept at their Watergate offices, told Artie to hang tough and maybe one of the Avengers would rescue him. Then he was out on Virginia Avenue catching a taxi to Dulles, handily dodging any possible exit interview with Byer. He left all of his other personal belongings and apartment lease for his mother to handle. She'd done it before.

His career had been strategically awkward more than once. It came with managing the bleeding edge of medical innovation. His co-workers weren't all Nazis and Gestapo clones, but there were enough of them. And Byer made an excellent Hitler.

Zev had been flying non-stop ever since. His first stop here at Candent's Kunming facility to brief the Proof Positive personnel on Byer's Outcome takedown and ongoing vendetta. Then he was on to Singapore headquarters for a full induction briefing by his new boss, a guy named "Ziang something," or maybe it was "something Ziang." He had a seat booked in eight hours at Kunming's Changshui International for the final leg of his trip.

Wasn't modern air travel wonderful? Soon he'd be completely on the opposite side of the planet from freaky Colonel Ric Byer. Thank God.

A double set of footsteps tapped quietly down the silent hall outside Boyd's office door. There had been a few earlier, attendants checking the animal pens down the hall according to Boyd, so Zev didn't go on alert until knuckles brushed a subdued shave-and-a-haircut, the door knob rattled and a male voice called a quiet, "It's locked, Boyd."

The door opened to a man and a woman. If the Virgin Mary had walked into Boyd's office, Zev wouldn't have been more surprised. It was a miracle. Zev literally couldn't believe it. "Doctor Shearing!" he exclaimed. He advanced on her with his hand out-stretched only to be blocked by Goldberg.

In person Shearing looked heavier than her photographs, thicker around the waist, larger in the bust. She almost looked pregnant.

Boyd had backed away from the door after opening it. Now he snarled, "Oh for f*ck's sake, Goldberg. Get out of the way. This is Zev Vendel, our new Proof Positive technical liaison. He's not going to hurt Marta. Back off."

Shearing aimed a look a pure venom at Boyd, but said nothing and held her ground. Goldberg held his place as well, as calm as you please, totally ignoring his superior. Suddenly Zev was glad he wasn't going to be stationed here in Kunming. The working relationships here seemed to be … complicated. He'd had enough of complicated back in DC.

"Sorry, uh, Goldberg. Doctor Shearing, I was just so surprised to see you," he looked behind them out in the hallway. "Where's Agent Five? Where's Cross? We've been chasing that guy around the world. I would really like to meet him. Hell, I'd love to kiss him. Anybody that can out-think Ric Byer is my new best friend."

Goldberg reacted for the first time, glancing at Boyd but eventually saying nothing. Doctor Shearing looked stricken. "Aaron's dead," she said. She glanced at Goldberg. "Goldberg had to shoot him when I … when Candent captured …"

Boyd spoke up. "Talk to Ziang when you get to Singapore, Vendel. He'll explain the situation." He gave Zev what could only be called a Significant Look with heavy overtones of Don't Ask Questions If You Value Your New Job.

Zev was really, really glad he wasn't going to be working here.

Aaron Cross was dead? That was just sad. His heart went out to Marta Shearing. Based on field reports, she had developed a deep personal relationship with Agent Five. "I'm so sorry, Doctor Shearing. I really admired Agent Five. I can only imagine your loss."

Everyone stood around in what should have felt like a respectful silence, but instead seemed more like an awkwardly embarrassed pause. Finally Boyd spoke, "Vendel, Marta and Goldberg need to hear what you told me about Colonel Byer."

"Oh yes, certainly," Zev nodded. He told them. That Colonel Byer had learned Candent had restarted the Outcome and LARX programs and that he intended to shut them down. That the CIA had lost control of him. That he was on their trail and would more than likely be here in Kunming within a few days, armed to the teeth and with a heart full of righteous hate.

Most importantly that he was hyped on Outcome blues and greens and crazy as a bed bug. Murderous crazy, Zev had seen it with his own eyes, felt it with his own chin.

Zev really, really felt badly about leaving Artie behind. He'd tried calling him on the taxi ride here from the Kunming airport. Artie's phone was always on and Artie always answered. But today Zev's call had gone straight to voice mail.


	30. Chapter 30

Chapter 30

Boyd had wanted Ziang to send twenty more security staff. While Goldberg wasn't necessarily opposed, additional men also meant coordination issues, communication foul-ups and chain of command realignments. Not to mention complications on the "how to keep Aaron Cross under wraps" front.

Speaking of whom … Goldberg glanced at Zev Vendel standing beside him next to the Chevy Tahoe he usually drove for trips into Kunming. He then looked around the north campus parking lot where they stood, the end closest to the Yunnan Stone Forest Nature Preserve, where weathered stone imitated giant trees in a lush green landscape as Chinese as noodle soup. The Preserve was just a half dozen kilometers further on down the road. Forest bound tourist buses passed the campus every day.

Where was Cross? He'd tailed Len and Marta to the Admin. Building from the residence hall. He and his kids were undoubtedly close by. "How well did you know Cross?" he asked Vendel as he fished in his pocket for the Tahoe's key remote. The windows of the large SUV were opaque with reflected moonlight. He could be already in the car.

Boyd had told Goldberg to drive Vendel back to the Kunming airport. Kunming was a big city. More than six million, with a complicated freeway and highway system to match. It would take him the rest of the night to get Vendel delivered.

He'd had to leave Marta Shearing in Boyd's office. He hoped she was okay. Boyd had been upset and had needed something to torment. When Len had left, he'd asked her with his eyes if she wanted to get away from Boyd. She'd shook her head.

"Never met him," Vendel said as he opened the passenger side door and threw his small traveling kit in the foot well. "My team just chased him," he finished as he buckled his seat belt. Having caught a hint of movement in the Tahoe's backseat, Goldberg stayed outside and on his feet.

"So you're the one that's been trying to kill me," Cross said as leaned forward from the backseat and put a knife to Vendel's throat. He wrapped his other arm around the man's head to keep him from involuntarily twitching and skewering himself. The blade he held glinted silver in the security light that surrounded the parking lot.

Vendel sat absolutely still. "Agent Cross!" he murmured, obviously trying not to move his throat too much. "Rumors of your death, etcetera."

Cross looked puzzled and glanced at Goldberg who supplied, "Mark Twain. The rumors of my death were an exaggeration."

"Cute," Cross said. "So what's Byer up to, Vendel? Still eating that sin sh*t?"

Vendel relaxed a little. He snorted gently. "You heard that one too, huh? I think that must be one of his favorites." He glanced down at the knife. "I'm not going anywhere. I'd really like to talk to you face to face. Could we do this a little more civilized? We have enough time. Right, Goldberg?"

Goldberg shrugged. "Probably, yeah. You said your flight's not until like ten a.m. Maybe an hour, hour and a half to get there."

Plenty of time. That is, if Cross let Vendel live, Goldberg thought. He wasn't sure if he'd try to stop Cross if he decided to kill him. The man had plenty of reason to kill the corporate drone. Not the least of which was to protect Marta Shearing.

Zev was surprised to find that Cross was shorter than him by maybe three inches or so. He'd come to think of the man as a giant. They stood in the parking lot since both Goldberg and Cross wanted this meeting to stay off Boyd's radar, which meant in real world terms avoiding the campus's ubiquitous CCTV cameras. Cross looked over his shoulder and waved hand signals at the shadows at the south edge of the lot. The shadows changed shape. Zev assumed that Cross had signaled some of Goldberg's security staff.

Frankly Zev was amazed. Cross's files had described him as "charming, friendly and patriotic" along with "deadly, machine-like and violent." None of which explained how he'd managed to totally arrogate Goldberg's security management position.

If he had. Goldberg didn't seem frightened of him. More like a good buddy attitude. And Byer had once said that regular military, even the best, tended to back off and let Outcome agents take over almost unconsciously. Like wolves submitting to their pack alpha, almost unaware of what they were doing, submitting to keep the peace in the den. Telling themselves all the while that they weren't frightened, they were cooperating.

Maybe that explained some of Byer's attitude toward Cross.

Goldberg said, "You told us inside that Byer was coming to Kunming. What makes you think that?"

Cross stood close. Even if Goldberg wasn't frightened of him, Zev was. Cross was intense, his stare an invasion of Zev's privacy, his stance a launch pad for violence. "After Cross took out Agent Two, we cross-checked inquiries on the kill or capture bounty with Two's credit card bills, trying to find some correlation. We came up with something promising in Reno. You talked to the Robinsons, right?"

Goldberg spoke up again. "Candent was supposed to protect them. Has Byer gone after them?"

"Doesn't need to," Cross said. "He knows the Robinsons personally and he knows all their contacts. They were Outcome trainers. And he knows that I know them. All Byer has to do is ask around, see who they've been talking to. He found this facility pretty quick. Right, Vendel?"

Zev nodded. Cross was quick himself. He had to ask. "How did you take down Agent Two? Artie and I had a bet. I was pretty sure you would. Black was several bricks short of a full hod, but I was wondering …"

"Slaughterhouse. He's buried in the Quality Pack feed lot. He was stupid enough to come after Marta and I chopped him into little pieces," Cross said. "Who's Artie? He another Outcome agent?"

Cross had chopped Black to pieces? From the calm expression on Cross's face, Zev didn't think he was exaggerating. And he'd begun to think Cross just might be sane. He changed his mind. "Co-worker. Still with Byer," Zev told Cross trying not to whimper.

"And what's he like, this Artie?" Cross's question broke into Zev's plans for keeping his ass thoroughly covered.

"Smart guy. Good analyst. Not as good as me, of course, but good. Listen, Aaron, can I call you Aaron?" Listen to me, Zev thought. I'm babbling. Cross hasn't done anything to me yet and I'm still scared to death. "I told Shearing and Boyd, but I think you should know, Byer has started taking greens and blues. He's about six weeks in and getting stronger every day."

Cross jerked in a startle reaction like an infant reacting to an unexpected sound. "Sterisyn's still making them? I thought Candent canceled their manufacturing license." He glanced at Goldberg, who shrugged helplessly.

Zev made a frustrated face. "I'm not a lawyer, but that sort of thing can take a while to trickle down the supply chain. All I know is that Byer's got enough chems to last him six months and he plans to make them count." He began to pat his pockets for a pen and paper. "Look, you got a pen? I'll give you Byer's cell phone and office numbers."

"Just tell me. I won't forget. Enhanced, remember?" Cross said.

So Zev did. And when Cross told him to get back in the Tahoe he did that too. Goldberg and Cross talked a moment outside, then Goldberg crawled into the driver's seat, fastened his seat belt and started the car. "You're a lucky bastard, Vendel," he said as he shifted into gear. "Cross thinks you're safe to let go. It's his call, so I'm taking you back to Kunming." He paused as they cleared the lot and pulled onto the highway. "If you do anything that hurts either one of them, Shearing or Cross, I'm coming after you and I may not be a super soldier, but you know what they say about old age and treachery. I've got both."

Zev tried to chuckle but all that came out was a dry cough. "If I were you," Goldberg continued, "I'd keep my mouth shut and my head down."

"Shutting mouth. Heading down," Zev said. Then he thought of something else he was wondering and since he was still in full babble mode he went ahead and asked. "Is Doctor Shearing pregnant?"


	31. Chapter 31

Chapter 31

Eric Byer had spent twenty of his forty-seven years as a secrecy administrator. First there had been the Air Force Academy in Colorado then eight years as a part-time helicopter pilot. But mostly he had coordinated, he had planned and he had thought the necessary cold Big Thoughts about patriotism and the true price of America's national security. The thoughts that civilians would never understand.

Wishy-washy civilian attitudes about patriotism had never bothered him before he had started the Outcome treatment. He'd just done what he had to do. But the greens and blues had clarified in Byer's mind the true divide between self-centered civilians and patriots like himself. The difference between weakness and strength. How commitment can transform a life, a world.

He looked down at the deflated bleeding body of Artie Ingram who had not understood this need for commitment and focus. Who had forced Byer to murder him to keep the CIA out of the upcoming operation. Artie had abandoned the higher patriotic plane. Reaching out, Byer unplugged Artie's keyboard before his pooling blood could short out the workstation. Zev could … no, Vendel had also abandoned him.

He was on his own. Well, him and the twenty-two mercenaries meeting him near Kunming for the needed facility closure. Candent should have done what he told it to do. Instead they were selling American secrets to China. Cross and Shearing would be there too, he was sure of it.

I have become Death, Byer thought. I will destroy your world.


	32. Chapter 32

Chapter 32

One of the things Goldberg liked best about aging had been the declining need for sleep. But the three hour round trip to Kunming to drop Vendel off at the airport had been pushing it. Earlier, he'd only slept two hours before Boyd's midnight call.

When he arrived back on campus at the unholy hour of five a.m., he found Cross camped out in his office. The sun barely peeped in through the window. The rich smell of freshly brewed coffee filled the air. Two cups sat on the desk, both steaming hot, along with a plate of sweet rolls.

Cross sipped from one of the coffee cups. "Plying me with breakfast, I see," Goldberg said. "Calories and coffee, what a wonderful way to start the day."

"We need to talk," Cross said.

Goldberg nodded as he sank into his desk chair. "Yes, indeed we do." He picked up a roll and began to eat.

He ate steadily and methodically, Cross politely and patiently waiting the whole while. Or at least he was pretending to be patient.

"I think it's time to bring Doctor Shearing in on this," Goldberg said after swallowing the last mouthful of his cinnamon roll.

Cross reacted to that immediately. The whole patient and polite façade evaporating in a split second, a frown snarling his whole face. All he said was, "No."

"No? Why the f*ck not, man? If Byer is after you, Boyd's going to order me to lock you down and hand you over to Byer pretty quick, probably today, unless I miss my guess. The man has the balls of a mouse."

"So Mickey Mouse him around for a while. Give me some time to set up a trap."

Goldberg snorted. "Even if I can manage that, if Shearing gets caught up in any of this, she'll get hurt. When she knows you're alive, she'll try to mix it up." He snickered. "Probably shoot Boyd if she gets a chance. Not sure how those two ever got together back in the day. She'd love to kill him now. You need to get her away."

"If she's with me, she'll always be in danger. She's safer here, even with Boyd screwing with her head," Cross said. He still refused to meet Goldberg's eyes. "I'm like a magnet for bullets. Always have been, always will be."

Goldberg looked at him somberly. "I don't think she cares about the danger, man. Never seen a woman so in love. She thinks you're dead, and she's still crazy in love with you." He told Cross about his gift of pictures and Marta's radiant appreciation. "Woman like that wants to be with her man. Hurts when she's not. I been there. Wife was Mossad and I was DEA. Getting together was … complicated, but I don't regret a second of it. Wish we'd had more time before the PLO got her." Goldberg fell silent, remembering.

Cross said, "You're a romantic, Len. She doesn't love me. I'm just her favorite lab project." He took a last swallow of his now cold coffee. Folded his arms, pinned his elbows on his knees, leaned forward. "She has no future with me. I never had anything to offer her but fear and pain. The CIA gave her a good scare wiping out the red lab. Then I stormed in and dragged her into my problems and the whole Outcome enhancement lock. Had to take her all the way to the Phillipines to take care of it. I should have stashed her then, but I couldn't bear …" He looked away. "She has a good heart. She needs something better than a life on the run with me." Cross sighed. "I was always going to die one way or another. So it doesn't really matter if she thinks I'm dead now, does it?"

That was it, Goldberg thought. Despair. Now he could hear it in Cross's voice. He'd given up. Byer had already won, if he'd just known it. Where there is no hope for the future, there is no life.

"So you're okay with someone else raising your baby?" Goldberg asked, hoping to get a reaction. He did.

Cross's head jerked around. "What? What are you talking about? You mean Kathy and the other clones? They'll be full grown in another two or three years. They'll be fine."

"No, your baby, the one Marta is carrying. She's maybe two months along, maybe a little more. Trust me, my sisters and their kids pop out babies like a herd of kosher cows. If there's anything female I know, it's pregnant."

Cross was on his feet. He'd taken a step or two in Goldberg's direction. "You're crazy. How could she be …" He shook his head. Turned away. "No, if you're right, it must be Boyd's."

Why didn't Cross want to believe he was a father? He was crazy about the woman and she was crazy about him, even if he was fighting the idea. "Trust me, Shearing would rather f*ck a snake than Boyd. Maybe they were lovers back in the day, but not now. I guarantee it. It's yours." He paused. Maybe he'd been misreading their relationship. Maybe it was chaste admiration. Yeah, right. "You did f*ck her, didn't you?"

Cross had Goldberg on the floor and in a choke hold before he was fully aware the other man had moved, which wasn't too hard given how tired he was. Or so Goldberg told himself. "I said it can't be mine," Cross growled into his ear.

Goldberg conceded that he may have gone too far, but he refused to be cowed by Cross's strong emotional reaction. Besides he had a staff of ten men, four of whom were within shouting distance right now.

And he would be dead before any of them got in here if Cross wanted to kill him.

Cross just didn't have too much in the way of manners, that was all. The man could put on a persona like a coat and be anyone in the world, but the real Cross was a bit on the … awkward side. Honorable, a faithful friend, but socially awkward. Like his parents hadn't really paid much attention to him when he was a kid. And let's not forget stubborn as hell and blind to the truth. People can't help being who they are. "Then you're an effing fool," Goldberg gasped.

Cross held him a moment longer then with a blistering curse released him. Goldberg struggled to his knees, then to his chair. "Look, I'm going to meet her for breakfast at seven. Telling her more about your kids and the clone project," he said in little gasps, slowly recovering, while checking his watch. It was fifteen minutes to seven.

So much for a little nap before his meeting with Shearing. He had to hike, and fast. He nodded toward the rack of short wave communicators on the wall. "Take one of those and listen in on us. That is, if you want to hear the truth."


End file.
